


All things truly wicked start from innocence

by hongmunmu



Series: A serpent in the rice [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Childhood, Gen, Loss of Parent(s), Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-06-19 20:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15518379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hongmunmu/pseuds/hongmunmu
Summary: In the Land of Fire it’s said that white snakes represent absolute purity of the soul. Orochimaru’s childhood begins and ends accordingly.





	1. Slug

**Author's Note:**

> this one's intended as the very first instalment in my series 'serpent in the rice', and covers his childhood before and after his parents' deaths. i stayed canon-compliant as much as is possible, but i had to flesh out the gaps, so orochimaru's parents and a few minor characters who'll be featured in chapters 2-4 are mostly OCs. i headcanon orochimaru's father to be chinese, for context to this and other instalments in the series.

The day Orochimaru is born, there is a halo around the sun. 

Hiruzen remembers it because of that. 

 

It was a bright, dry year. Arid. Some people had called it the year-long summer, because that year spring ended in January, and winter waited for the New Year. There was no autumn. Instead, the seasons that year had been Hay-fever, Humid, Heatstroke, and Drought. 

 

“It’s bad luck.” 

Sasuke Sarutobi was an old-fashioned sort of man, the kind who turned up his nose at women wearing hitai-ate and still believed every old wives’ tale his mother had taught him well into his forties. This, Hiruzen supposes, is just another one. 

“Bad luck, father?” 

Sasuke doesn’t respond immediately or even look at his son, squinting up at the sky, one hand braced at his brow to shade him against the glare, as if saluting the heavens.

“I just think it’s pretty.”

“ _ Pretty _ ,” Sasuke repeats derisively, a scoff in his voice. “You’re a man now, Hiruzen. Speak like one.” He rests one hand on Hiruzen’s shoulder, pointing the other toward the sun. “Rainbows symbolise snakes,” he murmurs, and it seems he’s saying it more to himself than his son. “But a circular rainbow, with no end…that’s the worst omen of all.” 

They’re quiet a moment or two more, captivated by the shining spectrum of colours around the white sun, before Sasuke breaks his gaze away, blinking furiously. “We’re in for a poor harvest,” he says matter-of-factly, and resumes his brisk stride. Hiruzen says nothing, and follows. 

 

That was the year he’d turned fifteen. It was also the year he and Biwako had begun courting proper, meeting almost daily at a magnolia tree on a ledge overlooking the outskirts; sure enough, she’s there waiting for him the next morning.

“Biwako,” he greets cheerfully, but his smile quickly fades as he sits beside her. She looks exhausted, deep grey circles under her eyes, but moreover she looks shaken. “Everything alright?” 

“A delivery,” she sighs, pointing toward a distant little house on the expanse of land before them. “It took all night.”

“But a birth, Biwa? Isn’t that good news?”

Biwako sighs, melancholy as anything, eyes still fixed on the house.  _ Not always _ , she thinks, but Hiruzen is from an old clan where heirs and bloodlines were everything, and she’s too tired to argue with him right now.

“The mother. That woman has… a terrible fear of blood,” she explains, idly picking at some grass. “She was crying and screaming all the way in terror. The husband practically had to hold her down throughout the whole thing. When it was finally over, the baby— it wasn’t breathing, not right away. They thought it was dead. Stillborn. The mother had this look of relief in her eyes, and then when it finally coughed and started crying, her face just… fell. Like something in her had died. She wouldn’t hold it. Couldn’t even look at him. ‘Take it away’, she told me.”

“At her own child’s birth? How cruel!” Hiruzen exclaims, but Biwako just tuts, shaking her head in irritation.

“She never even  _ wanted _ a child. Imagine if you were forced to carry a life inside you for nine months, Hiruzen, then give birth to it in agony while frightened half to death, and then look after it until it’s grown. And they’re terribly poor, that family, barely enough ryo to buy sorghum. What sort of quality of life would a baby in that house have anyway? In these times of war and pain?”

Hiruzen blinks, stunned, and stares at her curiously. Biwako realises she’d raised her voice quite a bit in her ranting and lowers her hackles, shoulders sinking;  _ probably never had a woman talk to him like that before,  _ she thinks. Hiruzen looks appropriately embarrassed at his ignorance, but not entirely ready to relinquish it; he goes quiet, hugging his knees as they stare out at the house. 

The magnolia tree bloomed beautifully this year, what with all the pervasive sunlight, but now in the final stretches of October it can’t escape its wilting. The exposed ground around the roots of the tree is littered with fallen flowers, their pale-pink and white petals marred by brown; some loose petals, others whole flowers, but all imperfect in some way.  After a few moments of silence, Hiruzen rifles through them to find a pretty, pearlescent one, a late bloomer, only just fallen— a blossom in its prime— and offers it to her. Biwako smiles, putting it in her hair, and makes a mental note to visit the Yamanaka flower shop later. Perhaps she’d bring some for the new mother. Orchids, perhaps. 

 

***

 

“Mama, I caught the moon.” 

The mornings are long in the country, with a pleasant coolness to the air that would depart when the sun cracked the horizon and signalled the start of the working day. They savour these moments, Orochimaru and his mother, when the roosters crow in the fields and the larks twitter in the trees, and all that’s green is covered in a crisp and fresh layer of dew. Just before dawn the moon still sits low in the pale blue sky, and sometimes, if Orochimaru’s quick about fetching water from the well, and he angles his bucket just right, he can catch its perfect, pearl reflection. He can catch the sun, too, but it’s not quite the same. 

Today he’d been in a rush, and cut his hand on the fence as he clambered over the stile connecting a neighbour’s cattle field and a footpath to the nearest well; the rusted iron nails protruding from the old wood tore the sleeve of his yukata and left a gash across his palm. Not a deep one, though it did sting, and bled a fair bit as he ran back to the house. As usual, his mother waited on the veranda, rocking gently in her chair. The morning air would cleanse her lungs and protect her from illness, his father always said; if she slept late like she wanted to, the stale air would shrink her, the lack of sunlight bleach her— like a plant. 

“I caught the moon,” he says again, handing her the bucket just like he does every morning. 

“So you did,” she says, just like she does every morning. Then she screams, which she doesn’t do every morning. The bucket clatters to the veranda, upended, and every last drop of the moon is spilled onto the grass. 

Orochimaru doesn’t think they’ll be having tea with breakfast today. 

 

*** 

 

“All better,” Father says, securing the bandage around Orochimaru’s hand. “Next time, don’t leave it to bleed, wash it straight away. Otherwise an infection might set in, and medical-nin are very expensive to hire.”

“Yes, papa,” Orochimaru murmurs. His eyes flicker to his unconscious mother, tucked into their best futon with a damp towel resting on her equally damp forehead. “Why did mama faint?” 

His father sighs, adjusting his hitai-ate. He’d been about to leave at the same time his wife had fainted. “Do you know what  _ kong shrei zheng _ means, Orochimaru?”

Orochimaru blinks.

“ _ Kong shrei zheng _ . ‘Terrifying blood disease’.” 

“Mama has a blood disease?”

Brow furrowed in frustration, tongue vying for clarity in a language that wasn’t his own, Orochimaru’s father does his best to explain. “It’s not a... disease as such. A disease of the mind, maybe. It means she’s afraid of blood.”

“Oh. Like how I’m afraid of bugs?”

“Not quite. Your mama doesn’t just fear blood, she … hates it. She’ll do anything not to see it. It’s like death to her, you understand?”

“But doesn’t mama have blood?” 

“She does, but …” Orochimaru’s father trails off, biting his lip in a moment of frustration before visibly giving up. “I don’t know the words for this, Orochimaru. I’m sorry. Perhaps Mama will tell you when she’s better.” He looks down at last, ruffling his son’s hair. “I think you’ll understand when you grow up.” 

He would.  

 

***

 

The walk to the city gates each morning isn’t unpleasant; Orochimaru weaves his way between fields of crops to the sound of chattering larks and faintly crying babies, chickens clucking at him as he makes his way out of the farm plots to the dirt road that leads to Konoha. Small, fat stone Buddhas or shrines are periodically stationed along its stretches, sometimes accompanied by offerings of food or incense left by travelling merchants or the early-rising monks from the nearby temple; sometimes if the pantry at home is bare Orochimaru makes a prayer to one of the shrines bearing offerings before taking a piece of steamed bread or fruit left there, and eats it while he walks. He’s sure the priests don’t mind. 

Approaching the Konoha gates the scenery becomes less private; often there’s beggars or merchants a little ways out, close enough to get footfall but far enough that the officials stationed at the outpost won’t make them clear the area. Konoha is still a relatively new town, but its military protection makes it uniquely attractive to trade and other faculties; as a result, it develops at thrice the speed that any ordinary village might. Each day as Orochimaru heads in towards the Academy, there’s always a throng of carpenters and craftsmen hauling construction equipment, market stalls being set up around the streets, shinobi returning from missions to report to the Hokage. Orochimaru observes all of this, all the commotion of life and society, war and peace, as it goes on around him. Once he arrives at the Academy there’s no time to think of the outside world. 

The Academy is perhaps one of the most-loved destinations in the village thus far, and the idea for which Hashirama had founded Konoha upon; though it was fast being overshadowed by dedicated military bases specifically for intelligence or administration, it was still for now the heart and pride of the settlement. Generally classes revolve around teaching the core skillset of a shinobi, as well as occasional lectures and exercises on village and community values, analysing what was wrong with the Warring States period and how Hidden Villages were superior. Orochimaru mostly trains alone, avoiding integration with the rest of his class; he’d risen steadily through age and skill groups, on account of a natural aptitude. The constant turnover of peers means Orochimaru rarely has time to bond, if at all, but he does occasionally form brief friendships based on schoolwork; for example, teaming up and practicing technique with someone before a practical exercise, so they have the advantage of rehearsed co-operation during the real thing; generally after these they would go back to ignoring each other. Orochimaru enjoys thinking of these short-lived bonds in the military terms he learns in lectures:  _ alliances _ . 

One such alliance is formed with a boy a few years his senior, who Orochimaru often encounters because they both favour going to the training field for free practice once school hours are over. Hatake Sakumo - that was his name - is usually accompanied by two members of the Inuzuka clan and their dogs, which initially led Orochimaru to believe they were all related. 

“What,  _ him? _ ” one of the Inuzukas exclaims incredulously after Orochimaru makes an ill-informed remark one afternoon. “Sakumo, an Inuzuka? Stuff that. Look at him, he’s got white hair.” 

“It’s  _ silver, _ if you don’t mind,” Sakumo says, elbowing his friend. “The Hatakes work with wolves, kid. Don’t lump me in with these mongrels.” 

“Wolf or dog,” Orochimaru replies flatly, “You all smell the same.” 

This sets off a round of laddish laughter and playfighting among the older boys that Orochimaru finds generally graceless and bizarre; he says as much, but unlike many of the shinobi from clans that Orochimaru makes similar remarks to, Sakumo and the Inuzukas take no offence; in fact, conversely, they take a shine to Orochimaru, and start referring to him as their  _ weird kouhai _ . (They try to push him into calling them senpai, which he flatly refuses.) Hatake is perhaps the first alliance Orochimaru makes which could be bordering on  _ friend  _ territory; they meet once in a while after classes to spar and try out the new techniques they’d learned. After about a year of this, Sakumo would enter the chuunin exams— almost skipping the title of genin entirely— and pass, becoming one of the youngest shinobi in Konoha. After that, Orochimaru wouldn’t see much of him.

It’s in the spring after Sakumo’s graduation that he makes his next, more permanent friend; a little while after the new year festival. Incidentally, that festival would also mark the beginning of the end, signalling the arrival of a dark, dark year. But no one was to know then. 

 

***

 

Tsunade Senju is something of an Academy celebrity, being the Hokage’s only grandchild; the irony being that she is in fact less approachable than Hashirama, who would happily spend all day in the village alongside the civilians if he wasn’t constantly being chaperoned away by his brother. Public opinion of Tsunade was honorable and respectful; the granddaughter of the Hokage was the granddaughter of the village. Peer opinion of Tsunade was divided, either general admiration or an aversion to her company. The majority of those who held the latter were the ones who had actually met her. 

Tsunade had something of a unique talent for rubbing people the wrong way; being rich, beautiful, and talented, she had never really been faced with the challenge of using charm, wit, or kindness to get what she wanted. Most of the boys held some sort of grudge against her for rejecting or outshining them, while the girls who befriended her often did it out of ulterior motive; sycophants or saboteurs hoping to soak up a little of her light, and then speak ill of her when she’s not around. Tsunade was that kind of person who was popular, who always had people around her, but still didn’t seem to have any real friends. 

For his part, Orochimaru never paid her much attention; much as he did with everyone else, he didn’t spare her a thought good or bad. As for Tsunade, well, she’d probably never even noticed him. Orochimaru was very good at hiding. 

 

“Hey, freak.” 

Generally speaking, Orochimaru doesn’t like engaging bullies. Partially because he could never think of anything good to say, but also because he knows from experience that if he gives them nothing to go on, they’ll lose interest. Not to mention that, on this route home, they’ll usually give up by the time he gets to the city gate; they’d hardly bother venturing out into the smelly, nettle-ridden fields just for some cheap laughs. So he walks on.

“Hey, we’re talking to you, halfie.” 

“Where’s your boyfriend? Not walking you home today?”

The jeering continues in a generally half-hearted manner, all bark and no bite, so Orochimaru’s generally feeling confident as he approaches the last alley leading to the main gate road; before he can turn the corner, however, his pursuers cut him off; one pushes into the alley before him, and two more shove him in, blocking it off from behind. 

“Stop messing around,” one of them says. “We know what you did.” 

Orochimaru wants to raise his eyebrows, but doesn’t, staring the talker down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Shut up, freak,” one of the boys behind him says, giving him a shove. “You cheated. Don’t deny it.” 

“How did I—”

“ _ Don’t _ play dumb!” The speaker is the boy in front, clearly the offended party of Orochimaru’s alleged crime. “You swapped out my ninja tools for weighted ones, didn’t you?! There’s no way you would have won otherwise— my shuriken aim’s  _ way  _ better than yours. I know something was up, I’ve practiced that move a thousand times—”

“You messed up in target practice and immediately decide that it’s my fault?” Orochimaru scoffs incredulously. “It sounds like you’re trying to cover your behind by blaming someone e—”

“If you didn’t do it, show us your bag,” he interrupts; as if on cue the pair standing behind Orochimaru seize his arms while the leader makes a grab for his satchel.

“Give that  _ back, _ ” Orochimaru snaps, yanking one arm free to hit at the boy’s face; the latter blocks the blow, grabbing his wrist, but in turn drops the bag, which they both scramble for at the same time. “Give it—”

“If you didn’t cheat,  _ show me, _ ” the boy says, tugging at it. “I know it was you, you’re the one sensei sent to fetch the fallen shuriken— I know you swapped them and upstaged me in front of the class so you could have first place—” 

Just as it looks like Orochimaru’s assailant is going to win their tug-of-war, there’s a cackle from above them that causes all four boys to stare up. There, perched on one of the balconies, is Tsunade Senju, legs idly dangling like she’s on a swing. Without warning she drops down into the alley, blocking them all off from the main street. 

“Three guys and one little girl seems like overkill. You guys want to go pick on someone your own size?” 

Annoyed, the leader forgets the bag, rounding on Tsunade with his fists clenched. “Who are you supposed to be? You think you’re tough?” 

“We’re just teaching this cheat a lesson. This is none of your business,” crows another one. Tsunade puts her hands on her hips, a confident air to her tone as she turns up her nose at them.

“Actually, everything that goes on in the village is my business,” she says. Orochimaru wonders if it’s appropriate to find your defender insufferable. “My grandpa doesn’t like people like you. It’s up to me to tell him.”

This instigates a round of sniggering among the three older boys, who while initially shaken, are now thoroughly unimpressed. “Yeah? What’s he going to do, wave his walking stick at us?” 

“Something like that, yeah. Or he could have your parents sent out of the village… maybe to the front lines? I hear they need more men in Suna.” 

The boys blanch. Tsunade continues. “Shodaime Hashirama Senju. Maybe you’ve heard of him?” 

It takes a moment for the threat to register before all three in unison let out feeble yells, staggering backwards in fear, then turning on their hell and sprinting away, tails between their legs. Tsunade smirks after them, smug as anything, before turning to Orochimaru with a friendlier look. “Oh, they ripped your bag—”

“I’ve got it,” Orochimaru says immediately, already crouching over his possessions, hastily gathering it all together into the fabric of his now-strapless bag and hugging it to his chest. Tsunade watches, grinning, rocking on the balls of her feet; Orochimaru blankly stares at her for a few moments, wondering what else she wants.  _ Oh.  _

“Thank you,” he says dully. He’s not sure how convincing it comes out, but Tsunade seems satisfied, beaming at him cheekily. 

“I’m Tsunade. I think we’re in the same form group, I’ve seen you at registration a couple times… it’s Orochimaru, right?”

Orochimaru nods. Tsunade beams, swivelling on her heel and beginning to flounce down the alley to the main street. “Weird name for a girl,” she says, hands clasped behind her back. 

Following her, Orochimaru corrects: “I’m not a girl.” 

“Oh.” Somehow she sounds disappointed and intrigued. “Well, you look like one. Shall I walk you to the gate?” 

Orochimaru doesn’t respond immediately, causing Tsunade to look over her shoulder questioningly; when their eyes meet, Orochimaru makes a vague affirmative sound, his hands noncommittally darting behind his back. It’s only once she’s turned away, not watching to see if he’s following her, that he discreetly tosses a set of weighted shuriken into a crack between two houses. 

 

***

 

Orochimaru was and always had been a good liar. His mother had always been pleased about it, saying it was a sign of intelligence; his father was not so optimistic. Tsunade had never questioned whether or not Orochimaru had been telling the truth that day, or if she even should have saved him, which considerably improved the light Orochimaru saw her in; if she was a spoilt, abrasive sort of companion to have, at least she’d believe whatever he told her. Having allies that trusted him was good, but having allies who didn’t even require him to tell a convincing lie were ideal. 

In truth, following her intervention with the confrontation in the alley that day, Orochimaru hadn’t made much of an effort to continue contact; that was all Tsunade. The day following the incident, and the day after, and the day after that, Tsunade would not seem to leave him alone. During registration at the beginning and end of each school day she would actively make an effort to sit next to him, chattering inanely about a falling-out she’d had with a friend or dramatically recounting to him the exhausting tale of how she’d had to reject another boy madly in love with her, as if Orochimaru cared. After the school day ended or during breaks she’d search for him out in the training field or courtyard so she could bombard him with more endless babbling; despite the increasingly ridiculous lengths Orochimaru went to in order to avoid her, spending his lunch-times up in trees, doing homework in the toilets for twenty minutes before leaving school so that his classmates would all have gone home— she always seemed to find him. After about a week of this nonsense, he can take no more; at this point the setbacks far outweighed the benefits of being Tsunade’s friend. He tells her as much one Friday, after he’s began his journey home and she, as always, walks with him to the gates. 

“...and that’s not the only thing. He also got me a little hair-tie with this goldfish accessory from a really cute new stall on the market road; we should go sometime, look, can you see how cute it is—” 

“Tsunade,” Orochimaru says suddenly, speaking for what feels like the first time in centuries. “Stop it.” 

She stares. “What do you mean, stop it?” 

“I mean, stop trying to bond with me,” he says, irritated. “It’s getting annoying. I’m grateful for your help the other day, but this is too much.” 

Tsunade raises an eyebrow at him, her hands on her hips; not unlike how she looked when she was confronting the boys in the alley. 

“Is that any way to speak to the Honorable Grandchild? You haven’t forgotten who I am, right?”

Orochimaru rolls his eyes. “Your blood ties are hardly a reason for me to befriend you. I don’t care who your grandfather is. You’re irritating me. Now move, I want to go home.” 

To Orochimaru’s surprise, Tsunade’s reaction isn’t quite as hostile as he thought; he’d been expecting some sort of indignant stamp of the foot and entitled shouting, but she actually appeared to be grinning, thumbs hooking idly into her obi. 

“Mm. I wouldn’t do that.” 

“If you think you can stop me just because your grandfather is the Hokage, think again. My parents aren’t shinobi, or direct Konoha citizens.”

Tsunade’s face doesn’t change; she glances up, clucking her tongue irritatingly. Orochimaru doesn’t have time for this. “You can’t do anything to me, and if you do, I can just tell a teacher that you’re throwing your weight around. So you’ll do what I say, or else.” Satisfied, Orochimaru pushes past her, making a brisk beeline for the gate. To his chagrin, Tsunade is still utterly unperturbed by his counterthreat; still fidgeting with her belt, she walks backwards to keep up with him, getting in his way.

“I said—”

“Actually,” she interrupts, and Orochimaru’s starting to find he really dislikes that word when it comes out of her mouth, “ _ You’ll  _ do what  _ I  _ say, or else. ‘Cause if you don’t, I can always tell sensei that you cheated on that target practice test. Those guys, no one’s gonna believe, but me? If I back them up, you’re screwed. All your grades from the past year’ll be trashed. You might have to retake the whole year, ‘cause they won’t know what you did or didn’t cheat on, and you’ll  _ definitely  _ be bumped down a few grades. Might even end up back in the class you started in…  _ mine _ . So we can partner up for practice  _ every  _ single  _ day _ . We’ll see a lot more of each other.” She grins sweetly. “If you walk away now, that is.”  

She was blackmailing him. Into being her friend. 

It’s not a situation Orochimaru ever thought he’d find himself in. 

Stunned into silence, Orochimaru takes a moment to work out the very intricate trap he’s walked into. Being the indentured friend of Tsunade Senju sounded like hell on earth, but having her unleash her full fury on him sounded quite considerably worse. Especially now that he knows she is in fact incredibly perceptive and cunning, and not the naive idiot she made herself out to be at all. 

Strangely, Orochimaru feels quite a lot more inclined to be her friend now she has him in a chokehold than he has at any other point in time. 

“So, what do you say?” She smiles, cocking her head to the side. Deceptively innocent. “Think about your answer carefully.” 

“...I would say,” Orochimaru says thoughtfully, “that there’s a new stall on market road selling some very cute hair accessories, and we should go and take a look.” 

Tsunade positively beams, less smug than genuinely very pleased, and for some strange reason Orochimaru has the distinct feeling that he’s just passed a test. 

“Good,” she says, putting her hands on his shoulders and turning him around, walking him away from the gate to the market road like he was a shopping cart. “That’s what I thought. Maybe next time, mister, you’ll think twice before thinking I’m stupid.” 

Orochimaru decides he likes Tsunade. 

 

***

 

“Mama,” Orochimaru begins one dull afternoon when the clouds are low, “Tsunade’s parents are are shinobi. So are most of my classmates’.” A pause. “Why aren’t you?” 

“Not everyone has to be a shinobi, Orochimaru,” she replies tiredly, turning a page of her book. Unsatisfied, Orochimaru persists. 

“Were you not good at it? Some people in my class say women aren’t good shinobi. Hyuga said it’s because they have to have babies.”

His mother snaps her book shut, throwing it square at Orochimaru’s head. 

“Yes, I  _ had _ to have you, and now you mock me for it, you impudent child,” she spits, voice clipped. “Stop listening to those boys in your class. They’re stupid. I raised you to be more intelligent than that— don’t you ever disrespect your mother again.” 

“I’m sorry,” Orochimaru murmurs, and he means it, picking up the book and dusting it off before handing it back to her. Sated, his mother clears her throat, tucking a long lock of black hair behind one ear before flicking through the book to find her page. 

“Good. To answer your question, I wasn’t allowed to become a shinobi. I was always sickly and wasn’t able to keep up with the training, since my body was so weak. And then I had you.” She hesitates for a moment before glancing at Orochimaru, sat on the floor nearby. “You’d best be grateful you at least have some of your father’s strength.”

Orochimaru nods, pondering this. He’d always known his mother was weak, of course, though not to the extent that she couldn’t even become a genin. He wondered what she did, all those long days alone while his father was away and Orochimaru journeyed into Konoha to attend school. 

“Did you want to be a shinobi?” 

She just shrugs. “I don’t see how that matters anymore, child. It never really mattered. It’s just what’s done.”

More silence but for the soft turning of pages, and the rustling of the breeze in the chimes outside. 

“Did you want to have a baby who’d be a shinobi?”

His mother takes longer to answer that; enough time passes that Orochimaru wonders if she even heard, and is about to repeat himself when she speaks. 

“I didn’t want a baby at all.” Her voice is low and quiet. “But I’m glad I had one. Sometimes things you don’t want to happen, happen anyway, and everyone’s the better for it. The wanting plays no part. You’re my child, Orochimaru. I’ll love you whatever you become.” She beckons him to come closer, with one long-fingered, pale hand, and when he does she places a kiss atop his head. “What do you want to be?” 

Orochimaru pauses and thinks about this for a minute as his mother tucks his hair behind his ears. “I want to be kind.” 

“Then be kind.”


	2. Toad

In the early evening as the light fades from the pale blue sky, Orochimaru’s father returns home for the first time in weeks, armour dirty and hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, to the sight of his son idly filling out his homework sheets at the kitchen table; cheek resting on his knuckles, bare feet swinging from the chair, still not quite touching the floor.

“I’m home,” he announces, kicking off his boots and suppressing a smile.

“Welcome back,” Orochimaru says absently, not looking up as he scrawls another answer. His father sighs, glancing around as he starts unlacing his armour.

“Where’s your mother?”

“She said she went to a friend’s house. Back soon.”

“I see. Working hard?”

“Yes.”

Chuckling tiredly, Orochimaru’s father drops the last of his woven armor, and walks in, ruffling his son’s hair before moving toward the bedroom. Whenever he came home from one of his long missions, he’d always go straight to bed, and would be asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. He slept like a beast. Mama would always say, _that man could sleep through his own death._

 

***

It’s about the time in their education as shinobi that talks regarding team assignments have begun, so at the Academy, friend groups are at their most tumultuous; classmates are naturally trying to gravitate into groups of three, experimenting who they work with best in the hopes that they’ll be allocated a team they’re already comfortable with. Needless to say, a lot of the more unpalatable, untalented or argumentative children find themselves friendless.

One such child is a rude, boisterous, unmotivated boy by name of Jiraiya, who was infamous among students and teachers alike for his antisocial tendencies. He frequently left graffiti reading _Jiraiya Was Here_ in his wake, whether it was in toilet cubicles, classroom desks, building walls or street signs; he flirted with every woman he saw, and made an enemy of every woman who rejected him; he’d sleep during class and sing in the library. Orochimaru had never spoken to him at length, but he had grassed on him to the teachers multiple times on account of his disruptive behaviour. Jiraiya had been one of the types who’d call Orochimaru names around the time they first started school, but after Orochimaru started moving swiftly up through the skill grades and consistently outperformed him, his mockery turned to general disapproval that was more likely jealousy than anything else. He’d call him a swot now and then if Orochimaru answered a question correctly or told him to be quiet during studies, but otherwise they didn’t speak.

Around the same time Sakumo had passed his chuunin exams, Jiraiya had been given two weeks’ suspension because he’d been found peeping in a women’s baths during school hours. Upon his return, he was dismayed to find that not only had his usual partners-in-crime lost interest in his childish escapades to focus on graduating to genin, but Tsunade, the most beautiful girl in the school, had finally made a male friend— and it wasn’t him. He throws several quite public tantrums about this, which after being ignored or shaken off by his old friends, generally manifest in the form of more graffiti and bad behaviour. Orochimaru pays attention to this— not out of interest in Jiraiya, who was a buffoon, but because he’s heard rumours circulating that it’s common practice in genin team selection for the worst-performing students to be paired with the best. And Jiraiya was nothing if not the worst.

“The funny thing is, he’s not even terrible,” Tsunade says idly one afternoon, leaning back on her palms, as they eat their packed lunches and watch Jiraiya perform transformation jutsu to impress a younger student from the other side of the training field. One of her and Orochimaru’s favorite things to do during breaks when the weather’s hot is to sit in the shade and watch Jiraiya make a fool of himself. “He could actually be pretty good if his attitude didn’t suck.”

“There’s a difference between heroes and soldiers,” Orochimaru murmurs in seeming agreement, which Tsunade accepts. She has generally accepted his bizarre manner of speech by now.

“I mean, he obviously understands stuff,” she continues while Orochimaru nods quietly, “He’s not an idiot.” (Orochimaru disagrees, but keeps his mouth shut.) “He just doesn’t try when it matters, only for stupid stuff.”

They glance over to Jiraiya, who was now sulking by a tree in a manner that reminded one of a dog licking its wounds, the girl he’d been trying to impress was angrily walking away.

“Good luck to anyone that gets _him_ as a team-mate,” Tsunade snorts, sucking noisily on the straw of her juice box.

 

***

 

“I can’t _believe_ this,” Tsunade whines, stamping her foot. “Sarutobi-sensei, can’t you do something about him? Can’t we have, like, Aburame instead? Even _Hiashi_ would be—”

“Tsunade,” Sarutobi chides gently, ruffling her hair. “Give him a chance. He’s going to balance the team, and all three of you will help each-other grow into fine Konoha shinobi.”

“ _Balance the team. All three of you will help each-other grow into fine Konoha shinobi,_ ” Tsunade mimics, giggling, much to Hiruzen’s chagrin. “Sarutobi, have you been practicing your inspirational-talk in front of a mirror?”

“It’s _sensei_ now _,_ Tsunade!”

Orochimaru would be alarmed by the overfamiliarity, if he hadn’t already met the man several times at the Senju compound. Tsunade boasted often about how she knew who her sensei was going to be, because Hiruzen— who’d been an apprentice of both her grandfather and his brother— had often been invited for dinner, leading Tsunade to treat him more like an older brother than a respected mentor. Purportedly, he’d been at the First’s mahjong games semi-regularly, and had therefore been a witness to the birth of Tsunade’s disastrous gambling habit. Sarutobi himself denied any involvement with much shame, insisting that now he was their teacher, he and Tsunade were to keep a professional and respectful relationship, and that she was not to flaunt the past in front of her new team-mates. Orochimaru understood this was code for _don’t ruin my image as a respectable mentor by bringing up how much money I’ve lost to your grandfather,_ but he keeps his mouth shut and pretends he knows and notices nothing _._ To save his own face as much as theirs— his parents would be upset if they got the idea that they’d poured all that money into their son’s education just for him to land an incompetent teacher.

“You’re quiet, Orochimaru,” Hiruzen says good-naturedly, after they’ve spent a moment of silence watching Tsunade mockingly skip ahead. As if proving the point, Orochimaru says nothing, just glances up at his teacher blankly with an odd sort of half-nod; Hiruzen chuckles, hands on his hips, and looks forward. “Good! At least I’ll have _one_ student who I can actually have a conversation with.”

Orochimaru replies by way of a secretive smile and burying his hands within his sleeves, because he’s never been one to turn away praise, but never knows much how to reply. Most people who encountered Orochimaru either avoided, feared, or actively disliked him, after all, and the love his parents and friends showed him was more through action and care than spoken words. Affection wasn’t a verbal process to Orochimaru, so he just smiles somewhat bashfully, hiding his mouth and bulging cheeks behind his sleeves. Hiruzen chuckles and ruffles his hair, gesturing for them to follow Tsunade.

The glow of quiet satisfaction leaves the air surrounding Orochimaru as they reach their destination; the training field is sweltering, the sun directly above them at its highest point in the mid-day, and Jiraiya, insufferably, is waiting for them, sat on one of three stumps toward the rear end of the field.

“Better late than never,” he declares once they’re within earshot, arms folded dramatically. “I didn’t think _I’d_ be the most punctual one of this team. But all three of you may have my forgiveness if Tsunade agrees to admit that—”

“ _Keep it,_ ” Tsunade shrieks, running to punch him squarely across the jaw and knocking him clean off the log. “No one’s in love with you, filth.”

“That’s very unladylike,” Jiraiya remarks once he’s recovered, still arrogant even nursing his face. “No one would marry a princess with such a foul temper, you know.”

“You want some more, bigmouth?”

“Enough, you two,” Hiruzen scolds; there’s just enough sternness in his voice that for once they both do as they’re told. “Tsunade, don’t attack your team-mate. Jiraiya, show her some respect. Also, it doesn’t matter now, but I _would_ remind you that we were supposed to meet at the gates, _not_ the training field.”

Tsunade sticks her tongue out at Jiraiya, who groans. Hiruzen continues.

“Tsunade, Jiraiya, Orochimaru. Today marks the day that all three of you become genin, but before you take your first mission as a team, there’s a test I’d like you to take.”

“We already _did_ our tests to graduate,” Jiraiya grumbles. “ _More_ tests?”

“It’s less a test than an exercise,” Hiruzen explains with boundless patience, shepherding all three children to stand side by side. “It’s a chance for me to assess your abilities individually and as a group, to see your teamwork, and how you tackle a situation you aren’t prepared for. That being said—”

From a small kunai pouch fastened to his obi, Hiruzen produces two silver bells on red cord. “Whichever one of you fails to take one of these bells from me will not have any lunch.”

 

***

 

Jiraiya and Hiruzen stay at the field for a long time after the test is over, so much so that the sun is beginning to set by the time the pair of them return to Konoha, Jiraiya wearing a grin bigger than his face. Tsunade and Orochimaru meet them at Ichiraku Ramen at 7 o’clock, having spent the hours wasting time at the high street; on arrival Jiraiya tells them, chest puffed out pompously, in great lavish detail of how sensei thought he might have an aptitude for summoning, and how he’d met the Monkey King Enma, with Sarutobi regularly interrupting to discount some parts of Jiraiya’s tale as exaggeration. The evening passes easily; Sarutobi gets the conversation flowing by asking each of them to introduce themselves and speak a little of what their aspirations as shinobi are, which is initially met with much scorn and embarrassment, all three children regarding it as unnecessary, what with them all being acquainted. Still, they play along, Tsunade and Jiraiya griping at and ridiculing each other for any weaknesses in their introductions, stealing food from each other’s bowls, swapping barbs about performances during the bell test. But despite all this there’s a sense of ease, camaraderie, the animated back-and-forth between Jiraiya and Tsunade less a serious clash than it was banter. Sarutobi gets increasingly drunk as the evening goes on and the sake keeps coming, and Tsunade’s forced to swap seats with Orochimaru lest she try to steal a sip of it one more time. Hashirama’s terrible influence, Sarutobi said, his brown skin flushed pink as a persimmon.

It’s a late and lilac dusk that masks the end of the night, as Sarutobi pays the tab and the newly-christened team all split off to head home. After a few closing words and a warning not to be late for their first mission tomorrow, Sarutobi is gone in a cloud of gold smoke, and Tsunade begins to walk off, Orochimaru trailing behind her.

“Hey, weird kid,” Jiraiya calls, “Wait up. I wanted to say—”  
“His _name_ is _Orochimaru,_ ” Tsunade calls, not looking back.

“Yeah, yeah, I _got it,_ washing-board,” Jiraiya snaps, lower lip comically flapping out as he does so. “I wanted to say, _Orochimaru_ , thanks.”

Orochimaru blinks at him, eyebrow raised, slowing his walk to a stop. “Why?”

“For sharing your lunch with me during the test, _duh._ ” He glances away now, fiddling with his belt awkwardly; embarrassed. “You broke the rules ‘cause I was hungry. I… had you down wrong. Before today I sort of just thought you were a mean, ladder-climbing nerd.”

“Thanks.”

“He _is_ a mean, ladder-climbing nerd.” Tsunade. Orochimaru doesn’t refute it.

“Alright, well, look. It was nice, and I know you live way out of town, so… if you want, you could stay the night at my place? I live only a stone’s throw from here, so.”

This outrages Tsunade enough that she finally stops walking, having noticed she’s not being followed, and turns around, hands on hips. “ _Actually_ , Orochimaru’s staying with me, so there’s no need.”

Jiraiya just shrugs, bravado coming back now that the humility’s done with. “You can come too. The theatre’s got a whole room just for washing-boards, so you’ll fit right in.”

Tsunade hits him.

 

***

 

Jiraiya’s home was nothing like Orochimaru’s or Tsunade’s. He lived in the backrooms of a kabuki theatre in the pleasure district, and his house never saw a moment of silence. Every night there seemed to be music and laughter, and unlike Orochimaru’s sparsely furnished rural home or Tsunade’s immaculately maintained clan enclosure, it was forever vibrant with character. Growing up Orochimaru and Tsunade had never been sure who in that place was Jiraiya’s family or not; people were constantly passing through, smoking in common areas, drinking, laughing; it was impossible to enter that house unannounced, because if anyone saw you, they’d immediately draw you in, hand you a cup of sake or a skewer of some grilled meat, coax you into taking a seat and joining the lull of conversation.

Even during the days, when most of the adults were too busy with work to pay Jiraiya and his friends any attention, there were still a great many fantastic things to do; the favorite was of course the costume storage room, or as Jiraiya liked to call it, the _morgue_ : where the costumes, wigs, masks and props that were old, damaged or out of vogue went to die. Jiraiya’s home was something of hoarder’s den; plenty of old and broken things laid about, threadbare cushions and moth-eaten blankets stuffed under the floorboards as cladding or placed out in the theatre seats, old clothes sewn into new curtains (and old curtains sewn into new clothes), everything found a home. But Tsunade in particular found endless joy in finally having a place to go where the slate wouldn’t be wiped clean every time she left; where she could finally put a face to her make-believe games, play like a normal child. The three children would spend hours dressing each other up, Jiraiya excitedly rattling off facts about each piece while Tsunade painted her face as white as Orochimaru’s. Training was exhausting, and missions were either too dull or too difficult, but whenever Team Hiruzen stopped off at the back door of the kabuki theatre they could forget they were shinobi, just for a few hours, and be the children they were.

And like that, they all grow a year older.

 

***

 

Orochimaru’s house was always quiet, like it was abandoned; his father was rarely home, working as a physician for the troops stationed at an outpost past the forest, and his mother rarely _left_ home, always sat in her chair or dozing. It was a creaky, traditional-style bungalow, the former owners of which had died during the Warring States period. The tatami was old and worn, and some of the screens and doors had holes or tears in them. Most of the appliances were faulty; the gas stove in particular would sputter or require a few attempts to kindle a flame, so whenever his mother got it to work she’d often leave it on a low heat for hours at a time, quietly heating a steel pot of water that she’d draw from throughout the day for her tea. The one, most valuable possession they owned was a beautiful antique 13-stringed koto, which Orochimaru’s mother had been gifted by his father as a wedding present, shortly after they eloped. She never played it, insisting it was too valuable to risk damaging, and that if the neighbours heard an instrument they might try to break in and steal it; instead, she kept it hidden in a small, secret storage space underneath one of the tatami floor panels. Occasionally she’d send Orochimaru down there to give it a dusting and check there were no rats or roaches chewing at the wood, since he was the only one small enough to fit inside the small space.

In truth, it’s less a deliberate architectural feature than it is someone attached a crate to the bottom of the house, hidden in the crawl space. But while that crate might have been designed as a secret cellar to conceal excess sacks of grain during a famine, or precious family heirlooms when times were hard, the 13-stringed koto was a large instrument that wasn’t designed to be hidden— just as ancient ceremonial gongs weren’t designed to be conveniently folded away while not in use. As a result Orochimaru remembers the day it went down there, wrapped in a tawny tarpaulin cloth like they were burying a relative in a dirt grave; on discovery it was too big for the space, his father had been sent down with a saw and measurements, and commanded to make a hole in the wood just big enough that the narrow end of the koto could fit through, meaning the whole instrument could sit flat and allow for the floor panel to be closed. They’d attempted to remedy that makeshift job and the draught it allowed, Orochimaru remembers, heading down into the crawl space under the house with a rainproof canvas, holding it over and around the head of the koto peeking out while his father, from inside, drove iron nails through; pinning the canvas around that sawed-gap in the wooden planks like a giant wind-proof pocket. It hadn’t been effective; enough to protect the instrument from the elements, certainly, and keep bugs from crawling in, but the wind still whistled through the microscopic gaps in the winter. A draft from beneath the floorboards. Orochimaru and his father had always called the room containing the koto’s hiding place ‘the cold room’ thereafter.

When Orochimaru was younger, they’d often had a lodger stay with them, since at the time many with business in the newly-established Konoha found that staying within the city walls was too expensive. Orochimaru remembered having mixed feelings on this; on the one hand he would meet many interesting people from all walks of life, some of whom brought laughter back into that quiet little house for the duration of their stay. On the other hand, he didn’t always like the looks they gave his mother, or the looks that she gave them. Child though he might have been, he felt something was off.

By the time Orochimaru started school, lodgers were far and few between; Konoha had begun building tall, crowded blocks of flats that were popular among visitors and tourists for cheap accommodation. Konoha was becoming a pilgrimage for many, a beacon of change and modern progress to the world of shinobi; no-one wanted to stay with some unfriendly, austere rural types, miles away from the city itself. Not only that, but as his mother’s health declined, she found she had less and less patience for what tenants she could find; she was worn too thin to play the nurturing hostess-and-landlady, and would sometimes snap at them for trekking dirt into the house or eating too much rice. One day she lost her temper at a young journalist from up north for spilling a single drop of ink on a table; she threw a pot of boiling chicken feet at him, screaming vitriol until he gathered up his things and fled, shouting that she was deranged. After he was gone and his mother had calmed down, realising what she’d done, Orochimaru knelt beside her and helped clean up, lifting the tatami panels off the floor so she could mop up the mess. She cried all the while, and when his father came home he overheard them having a vicious argument in the kitchen when they thought he was asleep.

After that, people stopped coming to stay.

Not long after Orochimaru makes friends with Tsunade, a platoon from the frontlines in Suna return to the Land of Fire, having suffered great losses; the hospital is busier than ever, and every medical-nin in Konoha is worked to the bone. The Hokage’s office issues public notices telling civilians to adopt a more make-do attitude, and to not seek out use of the health services unless it’s a genuine emergency. In the meantime, the soldiers in good shape need lodgings; Tobirama Senju puts forward a policy that any household to give food and shelter to Konoha soldiers will receive rations of one sack of rice a week, in addition to a monthly stipend; needless to say, Orochimaru’s parents are conflicted about it.

 

“I don’t want more strangers in the house,” his father says one night, aggressively peeling a radish. “You remember what happened last time. I don’t want you to get worse—”

“I’m fine, I’m doing much better lately; I’ve been having ginseng tea every day. And these aren’t strangers, they’re Konoha shinobi, dear. They’ve been fighting to protect our country—”

“Fighting and _losing,_ ” Father corrects, an angry edge to his usually calm voice. “There’s nothing in the world more dangerous than an army disgraced, Hana.”

Orochimaru sometimes suspects his father resents his mother for not wanting to leave the Elemental Nations and journey back to his homeland.

“ _Right_ , you were a _soldier_ , how could I forget?” Arms folded stubbornly across her chest, his mother takes on a confrontational, derisive tone. “Maybe if you were still one of them, we wouldn’t _have_ to take anyone in.”

“We don’t _have_ to take anyone in. You’re completely exaggerating—”

“We need the money! Maybe you’re fine living off that outpost’s scraps like a stray, _dear,_ but the salary you bring home is barely enough to put gruel in your son’s bowl. Perhaps if we had some real men around the house, I wouldn’t have to worry where Orochimaru’s next meal is going to come from—”

“So he can get a job!” Father sounds exasperated. “He’s old enough, he can just help out a shop after school, or gut eels for a fishmonger! There’s no need for us to stoop to licking the army’s boots.”

“I will _not_ have my son making the journey away from home _and_ back in the dark just because his father is too proud to be a good citizen of the country _he decided to come to_ —”

Orochimaru sometimes suspects his mother resents his father for managing to convince her love was worth more than a comfortable life. She’s told Orochimaru once or twice in confidence that she sometimes wishes she had listened to her own parents when they told her not to marry his father, that she’d been young and foolish and naive; Orochimaru pointed out that if she’d done that, he wouldn’t exist. She went quiet and didn’t deny it, just as his father does now. Not sure there’s anything left for them to say to each-other, Orochimaru tip-toes away from the thin paper wall, and creeps back to bed.

 

***

 

The soldiers arrive at their doorstep two days later, all browned by the Suna sun and looking jovial enough, small packs of their few belongings slung over their shoulders, their Konoha flak jackets undone and sleeves rolled up. One of them’s idly sucking on a blade of wheatgrass, the pod end of it hanging out the corner of his mouth.

“Ah, and you must be the landlady’s daughter,” he says with a wink once Orochimaru’s mother cautiously slides open the door. “We didn’t know she had _two_ children.”

While his mother struggles to keep her composure, giggling girlishly as they rattle off more blatantly rehearsed compliments and beckoning them inside, Orochimaru quickly shuffles around a corner to hide from view. Cautiously, he peeps out from the screen, watching as his mother ushers the three men into the kitchen, offering them tea and dumplings that she’d sent him to get earlier that day. The soldiers are conversationalists, and unusually chipper for their defeat; they chatter amongst themselves and to his mother, complimenting the house or her hospitality, asking jovially for more tea and inviting her to sit with them.

Seeing his chance to escape socialisation, Orochimaru stands on his tip-toes, hoping to turn and get outside; unfortunately the floor beneath him creaks, and all three shinobi immediately glance in his direction. Not as relaxed as they were making out, then.

“Hey, who’s this little guy?”

“Oh, don’t you boys mind him,” Mother says cheerfully, refilling empty cups. “My son, Orochimaru. Orochimaru, come and say hello.”

Orochimaru doesn’t move, shrinking a little further behind the panel as if that’ll somehow get him out of the situation. _Orochimaru, don’t be rude,_ his mother chides, apologising to the soldiers _he’s shy_ and such, but they shush her; _oh,_ _it’s no trouble, quite all right._ One of them stands and walks over to Orochimaru, crouching down to his level and holding out his open hand to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Orochimaru,” he says as Orochimaru tentatively shakes his hand. “I’m Gan. Those guys are Miyuki and Ryo.”

Orochimaru nods, not feeling talkative, and avoids Gan’s gaze. His mother decides to rescue him, gesturing Gan back to the table.

“Orochimaru’s training to be a shinobi,” she says proudly as Orochimaru gingerly makes his way into the kitchen. “Top of his class, aren’t you, child?”

“Is that so?” Gan looks him over, nodding in that condescending, approving way that adults do. “Very impressive.”

“He the only shinobi in the family, then?” Ryo chimes in, tugging a dumpling off a skewer with his teeth.

“That’s right, yes… my husband was a soldier in his youth, but he didn’t have the temperament for it.” She sighs, taking a sip of her tea. “We’ve been living off a physician’s salary ever since.”

“How terrible,” Gan murmurs sympathetically. Orochimaru feels quite out of place in the house.

“And now you’ve been driven into taking rabble like us under your roof,” Miyuki says in a more humorous tone, slapping Gan on the back. “We’ll do our best not to burn the place down, swear.”

“Hey, ma’am, you haven’t got anything stronger than this delicious tea, have you?” Ryo asks, eliciting an embarrassed chuckle and an _of course_ from Mother as she emphatically digs some sake out of a cupboard; the banter continues in a similar sort of manner, overfamiliar, high-spirited hardship talks, Orochimaru for the most part forgotten as the adults make lively conversation. His mother is, and always has been, a patriot.

“I’m going to Tsunade’s, Mama,” he announces, putting his sandals on.

“Oh— alright, child,” she calls, craning her neck to see him. “But if it gets dark, stay the night there. I don’t want you making the walk back late at night, yes?”

“Yes, Mama,” he replies absently, already halfway out the door.

 

***

 

Orochimaru didn’t like to impose on Tsunade, royalty that she was. Tsunade was a princess and she knew it, command and sovereignty in everything about her; her home was no exception, more a palace than anything in the heart of the Senju enclosure. Toward the walls were the smaller, less impressive houses of the branch families, though each were still far more glorious than anything Orochimaru was accustomed to. Tsunade, along with her parents and esteemed grandparents, lived in the central house which towered above the others; a magnificent structure of cedarwood and gilded panels emblazoned with the Senju crest. Great stone _shishi_ stood sentry either side of the doors, fangs bared; as children who played make-believe Tsunade would often include those lions in their games, fondly referring to them as her guards.

Tsunade played a lot of make-believe, Orochimaru noticed, which was understandable once you’d had a glimpse of her home life. Tsunade had never wanted for anything, spoiled rotten by her doting grandparents the Shodaime and his honorable wife. Her parents were rarely home, both devoted to their service of the village; her mother typically accompanied the Hokage as a military advisor, while her father was stationed at a military outpost, serving as a general under Tobirama’s command. As a result, Tsunade was left alone in that enormous house, every room seeming to stretch for miles; despite all the maids who waited on her, folded her clothes, patiently cleaned up after her games of drawing on the pavements in chalk or rolling in the freshly mown grass, she was deeply alone. Nothing Tsunade did ever left a mark; no notches in the wooden beams recording her height, no suspect stains on the wall with a story behind them. Her room was full of expensive dolls that were never touched, embroidered silk balls in beautiful spiralling patterns, sets of shogi and mahjong tucked unopened in cupboards; gifts adults bought her because _they_ liked them, not because she would. Her best friend was her grandmother Mito, and they would spend more time up there in the old woman’s quarters than in Tsunade’s own.

When Tsunade first invited Orochimaru to her home it was a complete ordeal; he’s welcomed through the clan gate by a small army of maids, who take his shoes to exchange them for special indoor shoes embroidered with the Senju clan symbol and offer him tea, sweets, or any other refreshments, all of which Orochimaru politely declines. Tsunade enjoys gauging his reaction, having evidently seen it before; she takes him to explore the clan compound, showing him all her favorite spots. Normally being shown around someone’s house was quite a quick, introductory affair, but his first visit to Tsunade’s home took all day, and even then they didn’t cover all of it— there were some rooms that even Tsunade wasn’t allowed to go to, which she would hold Orochimaru back from entering and say _this one’s off-limits to us kids._

Since that first visit things got more casual as the staff got used to seeing Orochimaru around; most friends that Tsunade made, they told him, would only visit the once— the more time Orochimaru spends with her in her gilded world, the more he understands Tsunade’s reasons for befriending him.

He begins spending a lot of time at Tsunade’s home, for pragmatic reasons as much as anything else; as the Academy term starts to draw to a close and training intensifies, Orochimaru finds it’s far more convenient to spend week-nights at Tsunade’s house and get nine hours of sleep, rather than journey all the way home and get six.

There was also the added benefit of not having to spend time with the three soldiers who now occupied his home like a territory.

 

***

 

The day Nawaki Senju is born, there’s a festival in Konoha, with the Hokage declaring three days of festivities for every man, woman, and child, to properly welcome him into the village. Tsunade had also been given such an arrival, though hers hadn’t been quite so magnificent. A boy was worth more, after all.

Only the main family are allowed in the room with Tsunade’s mother during the labour, with her grandmother Mito acting as midwife. Tobirama, who was of the view that the village should not be unmanned when times were uncertain, was the only one absent; he had opted to act as interim Hokage for the day while Hashirama was with his wife and daughter. It could be argued that he was doing it out of kindness, missing his nephew’s birth to ensure the village’s safety, but Tsunade’s always found it pretty clear that out of the two brothers, Hashirama was the family man. It’s hardly a problem for her, though; in fact she couldn’t have been happier, scurrying to and fro to fetch water and cloths, helping Mito any way she could. When it was over and her parents took a moment alone with her newborn brother while the others waited outside, Mito ruffled Tsunade’s hair fondly and sat her on her knee, telling her she’d been a big help, and that she’d be a wonderful older sister. In the months leading up to the birth Tsunade had started to feel a little overshadowed by the baby lurking in her mother’s stomach, always used to being the centre of attention and the child of the house, but Granny Mito had always caught the seeds of jealousy before they grew roots and made everything alright again.

But the arrival of a new Senju child marks the end of Tsunade’s lax childhood, as wet nurses and maids are brought in by the dozen and all preparations are made to welcome the new heir; security is given the once-over, should any of Konoha’s enemies attempt to strike while opportunity is ripe, and Tsunade’s forced heavy-hearted to break the news that Orochimaru cannot keep spending weeknights at her home. (Now that the princess had a real gold-blooded brother, there was no need to continue sheltering the stray she’d dragged in to keep her happy.)

Orochimaru doesn’t mind, despite Tsunade’s open (and frequent) lamenting of the situation. He finds Nawaki fascinating, strange, pink, ugly thing that he was, maw gaping open to show two tiny pegs of tooth poking out from the gum-flesh. Tsunade, though she outwardly pretends she’s disgusted and annoyed by this newborn interloper, loves being an older sister. When she thinks no one’s looking, Orochimaru sees her holding the baby, jostling it in her chubby arms, cooing and talking to it like a child’s impression of a nurse; whispering promises of greatness and companionship into its tiny ears. _I’m your big sister. I’m gonna show you everything. If you’re good I’ll show you how to cheat at Grandpa’s games, and I’ll even let you borrow my special weighted dice. But you have to promise not to lose them because they were a present from Baa-chan._

Orochimaru doesn’t understand it, not really; he’s not envious, nor does he pity her. But he’s happy that she’s happy. He thinks about the baby, with its fat bulging cheeks and hideous leaking nose, mouth circled by a white crust of spit, soft downy hairs on its bulbous little head; he thinks about Tsunade cradling it and fitting one of her fingers into its entire hand, and has feelings he isn’t sure how to describe as he walks through the fields home. (Sometimes he tries to do it on himself, to understand better the relationship Tsunade felt to that tiny blob of flesh; he points out one finger, and holds it with the rest of his hand, wiggling it like the baby does. It doesn’t help, and it doesn’t look the same. He’s already much bigger than a baby.)

 

***

 

Home, things are strange. They always are.

The house isn’t quiet like it used to be, like it should be; the soldiers, Gan, Miyuki, and Ryo, they always seem to be talking, questioning, drinking. His mother seems happier than ever, pressing kisses to a framed portrait of the Fire daimyo, cheeks flushed, not as sickly as she’d once been; Orochimaru should be glad of it, but he doesn’t. It feels like someone else’s home now. Hiashi Hyuga said that made him spiteful, and unsuited for happiness; probably true, though that was the pot calling the kettle black.

Tonight is no different, a happy clamor bubbling the bungalow as Orochimaru approaches; sounds of clinking crockery and lively chatter are accompanied by a warm glow from the kitchen window, and the smells of meat and garlic flood the air. On entering the house he’s greeted by the sight of his mother serving dinner to the soldiers (ever the gracious hostess), and all four of them cheer when Orochimaru walks in: _hey, he’s back, there he is._ Orochimaru blinks at them, affronted, until he spots the sake on the table. Explanations are comforting.

“Orochimaru, I was just serving up dinner. Take a seat?”

“No, I’m not hungry,” he says, breezing through, but then stops abruptly in the doorway. “Where’s Papa?”

“He was tired, he leaves early tomorrow,” Mother answers, spooning rice into Ryo’s bowl. “Don’t wake him up, child.”

“I won’t.” Orochimaru glances back. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Orochimaru-kun,” one of the soldiers says. Orochimaru doesn’t know which one.

 

***

 

He dreams about the baby.

 

***

 

Orochimaru knows it isn’t the morning yet because he’s sick and raw when he’s stirred from his sleep, throat tight, feeling like his skull’s loaded with rocks that bowl and tumble around when he moves. He wakes to his mother’s tear-streaked face, pale and dishevelled, bent over him and distorted like a demon as she shakes him from his futon, bony hands tugging at his wrists.

“Orochimaru,” she whispers, pressing her finger to his lips as he begins to mumble a question. “I need you to wake up and listen to me very carefully.”

Behind her, the floor has opened up; after a moment of hazy, sleepy-child confusion, Orochimaru recognises the hole in the floor as the storage space, the one his mother hides the koto in.

“Hide in here,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face; her hands are at his shoulders, steering him into the boxy hole. “Don’t make a sound. Don’t move, no matter what, you hear me? Hide and don’t come out until it’s safe.”

He blinks up at her in the dark, his eyes glinting chips of amber peering out from the floor. “When is safe?”

His mother didn’t reply, squeezing her eyes shut; she takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Mama, when is safe?”

“ _Shh!_ ”

“Why—”

“ _Because I said so!_ ”

Orochimaru goes quiet, lips pressed together, amber eyes wide. His mother flinches in recognition, and gingerly lays her hands on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry. Just— please trust me. Please do as I say. Be patient. You will know why someday.” She presses a fast, firm kiss to his forehead. Her lips are cold and cracked. “Live.”

Then the trap-door clicks shut.

 

***

 

“ _Why?!_ Why are you doing this?!”

“Sorry, love— it’s nothing personal, honest. Just following orders.”

“Please, no, _no—_ ”

“It’ll be quick.”

“ _No—_ ”

A scream. Shuffling.

_Thud._

 

The house is quiet again.

 

***

 

Orochimaru holds his breath, still as the grave. Only a crack of light gets into his dark hiding place from the room above, a ribbon of faint flickering moonlight, a sliver of the artificial glow from the kitchen’s electric lamp. _Drip._ It’s not safe yet; he can hear them pacing the house, their heavy-duty sandals creaking the boards beneath the tatami, sniffing him out. _Drip._

He listens. They’re quiet; they stalk through the rooms like panthers, drawing closer. Orochimaru closes his eyes.

“The brat’s gone,” one of them says, breaking the silence. _Drip._

Another one laughs. “In this? We’d have caught him. There’s only one door.”

“Kids can be quiet.”

“Can’t have got far.”

“Shut up, both of you.” Orochimaru recognises the speaker as Gan. “Hear that?”

_Drip._

More silence but for a shuffling of cloth, as if they’re gesturing to one another. One of them tap the floor hard with their shoe.

“It’s gotta fall somewhere.”

Orochimaru holds himself tighter, as if it’ll protect him.

_Drip._

They start moving again, faster now, their footsteps no longer directionless. Vultures circling a corpse. They enter the room.

_Drip._

“Come out, kid,” comes a coo. Ryo. “We ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

_Don’t come out until it’s safe._

The footsteps come closer, until they’re almost directly above him. One stays where they are; the other two pace the room, experimentally tapping on the floor. “We know you’re in here. Gonna be harder on you if you keep hiding.”

One of them taps on a beam with his foot, and a small cloud of dust is dislodged, wafting into the crawlspace as a cloud. Orochimaru bites his hand and pinches his nose to stifle a spluttering cough.

_Drip._

A shoe lands squarely in the middle of the trap door, and the creak that ensues is the loudest Orochimaru has ever heard. He holds in a sob.

“Hell- _o,_ ” comes Miyuki’s satisfied drawl. Low. Threatening. Orochimaru looks up through the crack.

They leer down at him. Ryo crouches to lift the panel. Orochimaru thinks about the moon in the bucket of water outside, and braces himself.

Nothing happens.

_Drip._

“Wait.” Gan. Orochimaru lets out the breath he was holding, and deflates like a balloon. He imagines himself shrivelling into nothing. “The mother said he’s a shinobi.”

“He’s a kid.”

“Shinobi.” A pause. Silent shuffling. Gan stays where he is; the other two move away, and come back staccato, grunting, dragging a weight. The dripping stops.

“There. Both of ‘em.”

“Good.”

More grunting. The floorboards creak and groan underneath the unusual weight, three grown men stomping around with their mystery object. Suddenly, the light vanishes from the crack above Orochimaru.

“Sure that’ll do the job?”

“Yeah. It’ll look like an accident. More realistic, ‘case medics get on it.”

“They won’t.”

“Better safe’n sorry.”

“Out.”

And just like that they’re away, the footsteps receding; to the hall, to the kitchen. The sound of glass shattering, something falling— and the door slides open, slides shut. Then they’re gone into the night, the murderers three.

_Drip._

 

***

 

Mama had said not to come out until it’s safe, but she hadn’t said when safe was, which was extremely confusing and stressful for Orochimaru. To err on the side of caution, he waits for quite a while after the soldiers have gone, trying to calm his breathing. He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive. Mother and father were dead but he was alive.

He counts to ten, for luck, for strength, for any number of things; just to wait out the core-shaking fear that gripped him still and made his skin cold. He counted to ten and when he finished he still wasn’t quite ready to go, so he counted to thirty after that, and by the time he reached thirty he decided he might as well make it an even minute, so he counts another twenty.

Then he stands and reaches both hands up, up to the door, up to the house. Both hands on the old planks of wood, and push.

It doesn’t open.

 _Drip_.

He pushes again, harder. The door shifts, slightly, but won’t open. Again, harder; he shoves and rattles it, tries to stand up fully and push it up with his back; still the panel won’t lift, creaking and groaning under its weight, threatening the forces above and below. Above, there’s a sound like a long expel of air, like when Jiraiya does a huge disgusting fart and Tsunade threatens to kill him for it. Orochimaru wants to laugh, and when he finally collapses back to the dusty floor of the black hole he was trapped in, he does. He laughs for a very long time, small at first, then loud and ridiculous, because he doesn’t care if the soldiers come back, he just wants out. It stops being funny, and his chest hurts, so he stops laughing.

 _Drip_.

He can’t breathe. In the dark time passes differently, so Orochimaru takes himself through a series of stages. Screaming, blood-curdling horrified screaming, calling for help until his voice scratches and he can scream no more. Then crying, sobbing and begging for mama, ranging between anguished bawls and soft weeping. He cries himself out, and grows tired of being upset. He grows tired altogether, and the initial claustrophobic horror of being trapped has faded away. Orochimaru curls up as best he can, resting his head on the cloth-wrapped koto, and pretends nothing’s happened. He pretends he’s still in bed, that his parents are still in the kitchen drinking tea. If he doesn’t let his foot press against the hard wooden wall, curling up tight, and he ignores the incessant slow dripping noise, he can almost believe it’s true.

 

Orochimaru falls into an uneasy sleep.

***

 

In the crushing dark and burgeoning, sudden clutch of half-consciousness, Orochimaru’s blank child mind dreams vividly. He dreams he is in a tight, dark, precious cocoon, a chrysalis in which he forms and changes and waits. He sleeps, emerging to a time in thousands upon thousands of years that the whales harpoon the people, that he sets his own head on fire and his body melts off him like wax to illuminate a dark, dark cave; he steps out of the cinders of himself a beautiful woman, his mother or someone’s, and inside the cave— which is the lining of his throat, and everyone else’s— is a perfect silver-scaled fish skin, paving the walls and the ceilings and the floors, which all blend into one as the cave’s rugged insides smooth into a circular tunnel. He hears the blood coming from miles away, a rush of burgundy fish-blood dribbles down through microscopic gills in the roof of the tunnel like sleeting rain; and then it rushes in a flood and carries him elsewhere in a hot stinking current. Shoots him down an artery. The stench burns his eyes and his nostrils, it makes him leak, dries him like old skin or strips of meat hanging outside the Konoha butcher. Eyes wet. Nose wet. Legs wet. Kong shrei zheng.

He wakes up screaming.

 

 _Drip_.

 

At first, Orochimaru doesn’t recognise the taste. It’s only when he feels it squelch in his yukata that he realises it’s not just sweat, too dark, and it’s in his mouth, and his eyes are stinging, cloying iron sticking and clotting like thick metal-milk in his throat that he realises.

 

 _Drip_.

 

Orochimaru looks up at the crack in the floor above him.

_Drip._

 

He screams.

 

***

 

The house is burning. It’s crackling, and spitting, and it stinks, but most of all it’s hot. Hot in an insidious way, not like a spitting oiled pan but like a pot of cool water brought to the boil over hours, sweating him out, torture in the agonising build; drenched in sweat and dust and his mother’s blood and piss and tears and snot, Orochimaru has a sudden, striking moment of pure cool clarity, a thought that cuts through all the filth and rings like a bell. He thinks: _I won’t die here._

 

His father hadn’t been a carpenter. He was a man of medicine, one who fixed people, not things. The house is old, the wood older, and all were built to last through hardship; what wasn’t, what was built with neither care nor talent, was the hiding place of the koto. Too big to fit; they’d broken it themselves, making a hole in the side of the crate, sitting the massive instrument in it, blanketing the gaps with canvas. The home-building equivalent of tailoring a small vintage dress to fit a large bust by a cutting a hole in the side, then patching up the gap with paper. Paper would rip if you pushed it.

Orochimaru tries several things— or, he wants to say he tries several things. In truth, it’s too dark for him to apply skill, detail, smarts; all he can do is fumble and apply force. So he searches, finds the edge of the koto, pushes and wiggles the heavy hunk of wood as best he can; it makes some small noises as he does, muffled by the tarp it’s wrapped in, string notes that are cut off. Hollow thunks. His mother would’ve killed him if she saw the damage he was doing to it, but as his mother was dead, this would not be a problem.

The fire is progressing. The kitchen was the most modern part of the house; the rest of it is dry, aged wood, stuff that would burn nicely. The smoke can’t reach him properly, not enough to suffocate him (in the event of a fire you must drop to the floor) but the stink is undeniable, a burning acrid dryness that feels like sand in Orochimaru’s eyes. He hears something, some amass of noises that could’ve been any number of things; shattering, breaking, falling, cracking, hissing. Things dying in the fire. His parents’ bodies above him have stopped dripping, he realises. The blood must have congealed.

A poorly-hammered nail snags from the wood and lets out a small length of the canvas, opening up a pocket of light to the outside world. Orochimaru remembers the day he and Father had hammered those nails in. Good thing they were both miserable excuses for builders.

Upstairs, things are growing dire. There are more noises like the first, louder, heavier; he thinks he can feel a beam give way, because the whole floor shudders. A little light is creeping into the space now, a warm orange glow. Orochimaru gives up at pushing the koto, which is too heavy and too big for him to move with any real force, and instead goes straight for the weak points; the nails. With his blunt fingernails Orochimaru tries to pick and pry at them, trying each in quick succession. Some are already loose and weak, and come out with barely any work; others are stuck fast and agonising, and splinters from the old wood around them shove and tear at Orochimaru’s skin as he works them out. The metal is rusted, the wood rotted. Infections abound. He will have to wash these wounds as soon as he gets out. For nails that are too tightly wedged, he pulls at the surrounding canvas instead to dislodge them, unstitching the house.

The blaze is glorious now, and Orochimaru can hear it, feel it, smell it; it’s close. It’s in the room. The cold room isn’t so cold any more.

Frantic and panicked now, his fingers numb from their miniscule wounds and the cold and fear, he alternates his tactics; pull a nail from the wood, try to move the koto, repeat. There is more give now, and he can actually wiggle the koto enough to push it a ways through the hole; but a few more inches isn’t going to help him. _If only he had Fire-style,_ he thinks, sour and desperate; if only he had Fire-style instead of Wind-style he could blast and burn his way out of here. He wouldn’t be afraid of the fire. Instead all he can do is help it.

Heave. Push. Heave. Pull. Orochimaru feels like his entire body is burning. Outside he can hear voices, he thinks; maybe he’s just being wishful. But it would be hard to ignore a fire this big, even in the morning. Though they’d still be too late to save his parents.

The canvas rips away; he hears it before he sees it. The koto slams out, wedges through the old wood; by odd, illogical instinct, Orochimaru tries to grab it, to pull it back, but it’s heavy and enormous and it falls. _Crash._

Orochimaru stops thinking and crawls out through the hole head-first. Something sick inside him thinks: _like being born._

The crawl space is blindingly bright and the air seems to sting after the inferno; glancing around he can see it all, see pieces of the house that have fallen through. It’s all still burning, the air moving in strange ripples, and if he doesn’t go now the burning beams will collapse onto him and it will all have been for nothing and he’ll die under his parent’s corpses just like he was supposed to. No. Cling to life. Cockroach.

He digs his splintered bleeding fingers into the earth. Soil and dirt collect under the remaining stumps of his fingernails. It hurts. It feels like a relief.

Barely thinking, Orochimaru runs as best he can, scampering like an animal; his feet damp with blood made wet slapping sounds against the dewy morning ground as he half-sprints, half-throws himself out from under the house. The grass is cool balm against his near-scorched skin; like a child reverting into an infant he drops to his bruised all-fours and crawls, blood-soaked and dirty, newborn; dragging his hands on the ground, his soiled fingers, his mother’s blood, his scraped knees. Born like the baby. Tsunade’s arms. He gurgles because there’s nothing left in him to cry, clinging to life, and drawn by that unchanging guiding force inside his small spiteful heart to the saving grace of the garden; to his bucket. To take it to the well and fetch water for tea. When he looks into it, the moon is gone.


	3. Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic was only intended to be three chapters, but whoops, i accidentally wrote way, way too much. i tried not to go overboard with OCs because i wanted the fic to be as canon as i could make it, but going the whole way with no OCs whatsoever proved impossible. take it in stride though - most of chapter 4 is written, but i figured the final stretch should be its own chapter. enjoy!  
> EDIT: forgot to say but i also polished up ch 1&2 a little

“The whole house. Slaughtered like pigs.” 

“By the soldiers? The poor child’s delusional.” 

“Screaming bloody murder to anyone that’ll listen, looking a fright—”

“Well, you’d be in shock, wouldn’t you? Sorry thing…” 

“I was always telling Hana not to leave that stove on, and the poor thing was so paranoid, you’d think she’d’ve listened—” 

“A fire, hot night in July? Nonsense. How’d you explain the blood?”

“An accident, spun out of hand by a scared child’s imagination, no more.”

“Did you  _ see  _ him? Drenched, head to toe. And making tea in the night?”

“You can’t deny they were odd. Mad woman and her foreign husband.” 

“So where  _ are _ the soldiers, then?” 

 

***

 

In the days after the incident Orochimaru stays with Jiraiya; not ideal for either of them, of course, but Tsunade, the more sensible choice and eager to help though she was, had no control over her home— if the Hokage appeared to shelter one orphan, he’d have to shelter them all. ( _ And there was the baby to think about. _ ) So as soon as the Konoha medical corps have discerned he’s uninjured, and a curly-haired Uchiha has made him recount the story of what happened three times, Orochimaru with nothing but the linen on his back is dropped off at the kabuki theatre’s back door, the smell of booze and strange incense thick in the air around. Letting go of Hiruzen’s hand, he glances up at his teacher, a skeptical— or disapproving— eyebrow raised, which Hiruzen has to placate with promises that _ it’s only for a couple of nights _ . They stand in the street uncomfortably for quite some time; his first knock unanswered, Hiruzen knocks again, more firmly. It’s met with muffled shouts and some crashes,  _ ‘Is someone going to get that’ _ s and ‘ _ I got it last time _ ’s and such, before finally it’s violently slid open to the sight of a panting Jiraiya. 

“Oh. Hey, sensei, Orochi—” 

Jiraiya senses something’s not right, because he cuts himself off as soon as he sees the grim looks on their faces, whatever joke he was about to make forgotten. “What’s, uh…” 

“Jiraiya,” Hiruzen says gently, “May I speak to your parents?” 

 

Things from there seem to pass in a blur of dimly coloured lights and echoed voices. Several days pass without much of anything at all; Jiraiya’s family set him up with a futon in a small storage room above the theatre, and he spends most of his time reading old books lying around, most of which are transcripts of old plays or guides to costume and masks, as well as history books on ties between theatre and ninja; there’s historic plays telling tales of the Sage of Six Paths, as well as records of ceremonial masks used for the performance of specific jutsu.

Since arriving at Jiraiya’s home, Orochimaru hardly leaves his room. Each morning Jiraiya brings him some of whatever his family had for breakfast, and attempts to check up on him before leaving for the academy; Orochimaru either eats a little or leaves it, then goes back to sleep, or reads. The same thing happens at dinner, and at all times he mostly dismisses Jiraiya’s attempts to talk or console him. For once, Jiraiya’s enormous family, all his aunts and uncles and the bizarre characters who never seemed to leave the front room, left Orochimaru alone; they were a raucous bunch of merry-makers who never normally grasped the concept of boundaries, but in the face of grief and genuine dark, they didn’t know what to do other than let it be. Sometimes Jiraiya tried to distract him with bad jokes or annoying tales of what happened in class, which Orochimaru would either snort at or criticise, and things were somewhat alright if only for a moment. And a week went by like that. 

One morning he’s called downstairs to the sight of Hiruzen waiting in the front room, looking perhaps a little too happy; his foot taps the rug-strewn floor incessantly, like he’s itching to get up. Jiraiya hovers in the doorway like a nosy moth until his family pull him away. 

“Orochimaru,” Hiruzen says warmly, standing to pull Orochimaru into a hug. Orochimaru doesn’t return the favor, standing motionless and stony until Hiruzen catches wind of and withdraws, settling back into his seat. “It’s good to see you. I have some good news.” 

If Hiruzen’s blather is rice flour, Orochimaru’s ears are a sieve, through which only the thick, clumping bits are caught; rolling around like pebbles. Most of it is white noise, but through all the waffle some information reaches Orochimaru:  _ Tsukikage. Friend of your mother’s. Agreed to take you in.  _

“If you gather up your things, we can leave whenever you’re ready,” he’s saying when Orochimaru tunes back in.

“I don’t have any things.” He’d been borrowing Jiraiya’s. He isn’t sure how Sarutobi forgot that. “We can go now.” 

Hiruzen blinks, taken aback, before his usual smile settles back in. Probably took the clipped answer as excitement. “All right.” 

Orochimaru can feel Jiraiya’s eyes on him as they leave, but he doesn’t look back. 

 

***

 

The Tsukikage family live in a reasonable, slightly newer house that’s much closer to the city walls; Orochimaru had often passed it when he walked to the Academy, if he took the shorter route to Konoha. (The shrines, and the food offerings they bore, were on the longer route that passed the temple.) Location-wise in relation to Konoha, the Tsukikage house’s positioning is the equivalent of telling someone annoying to keep out of your room, so they hover in the hall just outside the door, and if told to leave will argue,  _ I’m not in your room.  _ Light of dawn never touched the house; it sat tucked in the West shadow of the high Konoha walls, basking in the shade like a lizard.  

On the walk over Hiruzen had said it must be good to see a familiar face. Orochimaru knew Mrs Tsukikage, true, but on a superficial level; family friend or even acquaintance was an overstatement. His mother hadn’t been a sociable woman, or even likable; the two of them might’ve had tea once, when Orochimaru was barely past infancy, and that was the extent of their friendship. Among the housewives of the Konoha suburbs, though, rumours and gossip were half the relationships. Now that his mother was dead, everyone was her best friend. 

The Tsukikages were a sensible family, a moon-in-the-lake reflection of Orochimaru’s own; a hardworking, upright father, a diligent and healthy son, a sociable, traditional good-wife-wise-mother. All born and bred from the local land, not shinobi but not peasants either, living off a respectable combination of inherited wealth and a mid-level businessman’s income. Decent. Ordinary. If the Tsukikages were a food, they’d be plain, watery rice porridge. Unsatisfying, maybe, but miles better than what was afforded to most. 

“Orochimaru-kun,” Mrs Tsukikage says in anguish, throwing her arms around Orochimaru the moment her husband opens the door. “We heard.  _ So  _ awful.”

“Terrible thing,” Mr Tsukikage adds usefully. “Just terrible. Couldn’t believe it.” 

Orochimaru says nothing, allotting them one glance each before letting his gaze drop back to the floor; sensing his discomfort, Hiruzen hurriedly shepherds him in, cutting through the  _ condolences _ small talk.

“We’d best get on,” he says, warm but brisk, “Orochimaru’s had a long day, and I’m sure he’d like some rest before supper. Perhaps we could talk in the kitchen while your son…?” 

Mrs Tsukikage nods all too sympathetically, gesturing to a small, pink boy who hovered by the stairs. “Of course. Ryota will show you up to your room, Orochimaru-kun. There’s a mosquito net and a futon already laid out.”

Orochimaru nods, bowing quickly to show respect before following Ryota away from the adults. Hiruzen had briefly told him about the Tsukikages’ son: one or two years younger than him, being sent to a prestigious non-shinobi school. He was a little plump and plain-looking, fair-skinned but not pale, wavy dark hair cropped into a shaggy bowl. He leads Orochimaru up the stairs excitedly, looking over his shoulder every few seconds as if to check he hadn’t gotten lost. 

“Your room’s on the left,” he says animatedly with a cheeky kind of smile, sliding open a panel at the end of the corridor. It opens into a cozy, cupboard-like room; windowless, most of the floor space taken up by an adult’s-sized futon, only one panel’s width of floor exposed. Ryota rushes in before him, kneeling on the futon to show him where he can put things. 

“No cupboard, but you can keep your stuff in here,” he says, pulling up one of the tatami boards to reveal a small, sunken space. 

“Oh,” Orochimaru says.

“And, and, check this out,” he says, standing on his tiptoes to reach a high stretch of the wall, and sliding it aside to reveal a small rectangle of daylight. “A window!” 

Orochimaru nods in confirmation, glancing up at it while Ryota babbled on. He supposes that mosquito net would come in useful after all. 

Orochimaru gets the impression Ryota has been dying for someone to talk to, because he doesn’t shut up or take any of Orochimaru’s various cues that he wanted to be left alone for quite some time, his topics of conversation ranging from how dull his school is to his various grievances with his father’s parenting. Orochimaru gets through most of it with small, uninterested nods, and the occasional ‘mm’ to indicate he was still listening. He’s starting to give up hope of ever getting away when Mrs Tsukikage calls them to come for dinner; Orochimaru is on his feet and by the door within moments, but Ryota grabs his hand, holding him back for just a moment. 

“You know, you don’t have to worry about being called a liar here, Orochimaru-san,” he says conspiratorially, eyes sparkling. “My parents believe your story, the story that the soldiers murdered your folks.”

“It’s not a story,” Orochimaru says stiffly, not looking at him. “It’s the truth.” 

Ryota smiles disconcertingly. “Well, either way,” he says after a pause, as if it made no difference to him, “I’m really happy you’re here, and that we can be friends. I always wanted a brother, y’know.”

“I’m not your brother,” Orochimaru says abruptly. “And we’re not friends.” 

Ryota’s smile freezes, darkens, and then fades, like a toddler who’s been told it can’t have candy. Orochimaru pulls his wrist free and heads downstairs. 

 

*** 

 

Sarutobi stays for the somber affair of dinner, which is spent mostly in silence but for Mrs Tsukikage who makes small talk throughout, asking all sorts of questions about Tobirama and the government and the  _ general state of things.  _ Sarutobi humours her with polite, uneasy answers; no-one else speaks for the duration. As she repeats a question she’d already asked, Orochimaru suspects Mrs Tsukikage would do anything to avoid silence. 

“I’d best be going,” Sarutobi says eventually after a clear of his throat, rising as Mrs Tsukikage takes away the empty dishes. “Madam, you have my thanks once again for taking him in.”

“Oh, not at all,” she says dismissively, waving as if to disperse the gratitude from the air. Hiruzen bows once, deeply, then pulls Orochimaru to the side, squeezing his shoulder. 

“Orochimaru,” he says after a deep breath, as if he’s saying goodbye forever. “This is where I leave you. I’ll visit now and again, if you like, and make sure everything’s all right? Other than that, I’ll see you at school.” 

“Yes,” Orochimaru says simply, not making eye contact. Hiruzen looks at him for a moment longer, then nods, exhaling as he slips on his sandals. With one more bow and thanks to the family, he’s gone into the evening. Orochimaru blinks, still for a minute, then goes to help with the washing up. 

 

***

 

His parents’ funeral is held at the temple, since there was no longer a family home to speak of, serviced by an old monk who talks far too quietly. As relative of the deceased Orochimaru wears white; Mrs Tsukikage does, too, for some reason Orochimaru isn’t clear on. The rest of the mourners wear black, Sarutobi among them. Jiraiya and Tsunade aren’t present, which Orochimaru suspects is Sarutobi’s doing, and to tell the truth he’s grateful; respectful distance was much easier to understand than the same repetitive sentiments that the adults here have been saying to him all day;  _ sorry for your loss, they’re in our hearts, this must be so hard.  _ Orochimaru ignores them and stares at his toes; Mrs Tsukikage, ever the hostess, quickly picks up the slack with gracious  _ thank-you _ s and nods. 

The service isn’t long. The priest talks briefly of his mother’s more noble background and how by leaving material wealth for love, she found enlightenment; he speaks of his father’s foreign roots, of his travels, his brief time as a soldier before he switched to a path of traditional medicine; how his hands chose to heal instead of hurt. Orochimaru thinks the service is full of hot air and posturing, because this priest doesn’t know that his mother wished she never eloped, and his father’s practice was for the most part seen as outdated superstition in this country, and together the pair of them had never scraped together enough pennies to keep anyone in the family happy. So he frowns and bites his lip and chews his nails and contemplates interrupting to correct the doddering old man; it’s only Hiruzen’s hand that draws up and gently squeezes his own which tells him to stop. It’s not a comfort, or a discomfort; just a message received. Orochimaru thinks nothing. Passive. Still. Stone. 

 

“So, you’ve taken in a homeless child, Junko? It’s so charitable of you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. We all have to do our bit to end this war, don’t we?”

“So modest, isn’t she? What a head she has on her shoulders. That boy’s very lucky to have you.” 

The wake never seems to end. Adults swim by in droves, all seeing Orochimaru but none approaching him with more than a mumbled and hurried  _ condolences.  _ The Tsukikages appear sympathetic, but do nothing to quell the apparent levity of the room; Orochimaru is fairly sure none of these people knew his mother, at least no further than a very superficial level of acquaintance; there is a small number of tall and dark men, soldiers, who Orochimaru vaguely connects to his father. These men however seemed caught in their own stories, each appearing to know Orochimaru’s father better than the last, practically arm to arm in a tight war-forged circle that had no room for Orochimaru to worm his way in. He wonders if his father even told these men he had a son. 

“It’s like I always say, you be good to them, they’ll be good to you.”

“Well, I’m not sure how good that one is. I saw him passing often; always struck me as a bad apple. Very brave of you, Tsukikage-san.”

“Agreed. Look at him now; he doesn’t cry, he doesn’t speak. Just stares at you with those cold, wild eyes. Is it bad to feel scared of a child?”

“No, dear, I think it’s more than reasonable. He hasn’t exactly been behaving how you’d expect.” 

Mrs. Tsukikage lights three more sticks of incense, stuck in a small dish of dry rice, and the overpowering scent of sandalwood returns to the gathering. Orochimaru pictures the smoke traveling like tendrils through the crowd, weaving its way past the socialites and up, into his nose, lining the insides of his lungs. It doesn’t calm him.

“Sarutobi-san is only taking him on as a student to keep an eye on him.”

“A lot of disturbed children start fires, you know.”

“Especially ones that don’t come from money, foreign blood and all that; not to speak ill of the dead, of course. Rest their souls.” 

“How much do you want to bet  _ he _ killed them?”

“Oh, show some respect. At least wait until the bones are cold.”

It’s all far, far too loud, too crowded, too hot, too scented; too  _ much.  _ Orochimaru’s been sat on one of the stair steps for most of the wake, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet; now the volume all seems to crush in on him, he curls up. The step creaks with every rocking motion. He presses the palms of his hands flat against his ears hard, for all the good it does to block out the noise, and he starts to scream. 

 

***

 

Towards the last years of their lives Orochimaru’s parents had begun to grate on each other, as many of those rushed, impulsive marriages of young people did in those days. Little things, exacerbated by the presence of a child and strain on money; things like the sandalwood oil his mother would dab into her skin each morning and night as perfume. When she was tending the garden or running errands in the village, Orochimaru’s father would remark,  _ she smells like death. _

Orochimaru didn’t understand what he’d meant then, his bitter dislike of a relatively pleasant perfume, or how the scent of sandalwood could possibly be confused with smell of death. It wasn’t like she smelled of rot. 

He understands now. 

 

Hiruzen saves him from the wake. As a blanket of recognition falls over the bubbling crowd and all heads turn in his direction, expressions varying between pity, shock, and disapproval, firm hands clasp under his armpits pulling Orochimaru to his feet; and in a swift sweep of movement his teacher half-drags, half-carries Orochimaru out of the suffocating room, out the house, out into the grassy path. 

 

***

 

Hiruzen walks Orochimaru through the country, small hand in his own; they walk to the edge of a field, where Orochimaru plucks daffodils and white hydrangeas into bunches and holds them tight. They go to the place where Orochimaru’s house once stood, now a blackened frame of a house that still awaited clearing, and say prayers; Orochimaru leaves half of his flowers at the foot of the quiet house’s carcass, where they rustle in the wind. They retrace the procession of mourner’s footsteps to the Konoha graveyard, where the small headstone bore the crisp, new etchings of his parent’s names. The newly-backfilled soil is still fresh and turned around it, fallow and fertilised just in time for spring.

“Don’t listen to the rumours, Orochimaru,” Hiruzen says gently, squatting beside him as Orochimaru arranges his remaining flowers by the small grave. “No one means you any harm. These people are just scared, and small-minded.”

“They should be scared,” Orochimaru murmurs. “It’ll probably be them next.”

“Orochimaru. Don’t say things like that, alright? No one needs to be scared. You shouldn’t encourage it.”

Orochimaru shrugs blankly, his bottom lip jutting out; it worried Hiruzen, this penchant for saying alarming things. No doubt it’d get him in trouble one day. Orochimaru plucks at the grass idly. “Why not? Why is no one else going to be killed? Why just my parents?” 

Hiruzen scratches his jaw, glancing away with a sigh. “This world can be cruel and unfair. Sometimes, people just do bad things. We don’t always... know their reasons. Sometimes, they don’t have any.”

“Why?” 

“I can’t explain that, Orochimaru.” Too curt; too impatient. Tread lightly, Hiruzen. “What I mean to say is— I’m afraid I don’t have all the answers. Perhaps someday, when you’re older, you’ll understand.”

Orochimaru nods and says nothing to that. He knows the conversation is closed. 

 

***

 

“Orochimaru-kun, are you awake? Come downstairs and eat, you have errands to run.” 

Breakfast with the Tsukikage family is always the same; a thin porridge made of the previous night’s rice, sometimes with salted egg, mung beans or other additions if they’re feeling generous. Mrs Tsukikage gives him and herself more water than rice, saving the best solids in the pot for her husband and son. She’s of the view that people who work for the country are the ones who deserve to eat well. Orochimaru knows better than to complain. 

Mr Tsukikage wolfs down his food and a second helping before rushing out the door, kissing a quick goodbye to his wife; Ryota follows absent-mindedly, chewing on a red bean bun. Orochimaru and Mrs Tsukikage wash dishes side by side at the sink, Orochimaru scrubbing them down, Mrs Tsukikage drying them with a rag and putting them away. 

“I bumped into Yuna from the launder’s at the market yesterday; she told me she still has some of your mother’s kimono. Since you still aren’t going back to work, I’d like you to go and fetch them; you can sell whatever there is for a good price, since good-quality kimono are rare these days, and then you’ll have some money of your own to buy food. That’ll be good, won’t it?”

“Why do I have to sell it?” Orochimaru asks, taking care not to sound accusatory. 

“Well, you can’t very well stay here forever, can you? With both your parents gone, the sooner you learn how to take care of yourself, the better it’ll be. You can’t rely on other people, my dear; doing things yourself is always the best option. Besides; if you’re going to be a soldier, you should learn how to be self-sufficient, after all, and food tastes better if you pay for it with your own money. I shouldn’t have to tell you about the worth of earning your keep, should I?” 

“No, Tsukikage-san.” 

“Good! These are hard times, too, so it would be quite the help. While you’re in town, it would also be good if you could pick up Ryota’s new uniform from the tailor, and fetch Koichi’s lunch order from Ichiraku and bring it to him. Perhaps you could also stop by the Academy and see what missions you’ve been missing out on? Genin might not have big jobs, but it all counts in times like these—” 

“I’ll go back on duty,” Orochimaru says suddenly, handing her the last cleaned dish. “I’ve been gone long enough.” 

Mrs Tsukikage’s face brightens as she takes the crockery from him. “Wonderful! Well, you can go back tomorrow morning, then. Perhaps let your teacher know while you’re in town. And be back before dark, please.” 

“Yes, Tsukikage-san,” Orochimaru says, slipping on his sandals and slinging a canvas bag over his shoulder. He glances over his shoulder to see that she’s not looking before sneaking a satsuma off a decorative bowl of fruit, positioned near the door, and hides it in his sleeves as he goes.

 

It’s a bright day out, the sun beating down on defenseless Konoha; every playground slide and public handrail is too hot to touch, the asphalt sweating off rays of visible heat. Orochimaru shades his face with a wide-brimmed paper conical hat, the cheap ones you could get for pennies at every second stall on the high street, and fastens his sleeves short with a length of cord. The satsuma he keeps safe in the still-cool canvas bag.

He runs Mrs Tsukikage’s errands, fetching Ryota’s private school uniform from the tailor, visiting Sarutobi-sensei at the Academy to break the news, delivering Mr Tsukikage’s lunch to his office building. He keeps picking up his mother’s things for last; he’s not sure why. It’s not that he’s scared. He just likes the idea that there’s still more of his parents waiting for him, he supposes.

He breaks by the town main square, perching on someone’s doorstep in the shade of a block of shops, retrieving his satsuma from the bottom of the canvas bag. The day’s chores had left it warmed and slightly squishy, but still intact; he takes his time to enjoy it, scratching at the surface of the peel and letting the fragrant zest sit beneath his fingernails, breathing in the scent idly as he watches the people go about their day in the sun. 

“Hey, stranger,” comes an all-too-familiar voice. “What’re you doing, looking all suspicious, smelling an orange in a dark corner?”

“Tsunade,” Orochimaru mumbles, nodding at her in acknowledgement. 

“Budge up,” she says, nudging him with her hip so she can fit on the step beside him. “How’ve you been? Everyone was worried about you.” 

Orochimaru shrugs, fidgeting with the satsuma, avoiding eye contact. 

“Want me to peel that for you, or…?” 

He shrugs again, handing it to her. Tsunade makes surprisingly quick work of it for someone who never had to prepare her own food, rubbing the fragrant peels on her wrists before dumping them in a nearby patch of plants. They share the fruit in silence, pulling the segments apart at the half and picking away the sticky white rinds. Tsunade sighs, wiping juice off her chin. “Jiraiya was missing you. He said he wanted you back on the missions.” A pause. “I mean, not that he wanted me to tell you. You know how he is.”

Orochimaru snorts, softly. “The idiot’s in luck, then. I’m coming back tomorrow.” 

“Really?!” Tsunade coughs and clears her throat, trying to suppress her excitement. “I mean— really, is that… okay? It’s only been a few weeks since…” She trails off. Orochimaru just shrugs, wiping his hands on his bag. 

“Sitting around is boring. I’d rather be doing things again.” He stands, dusting himself off and adjusting his hat. “Besides, their kid is really annoying.” 

“If you’re sure,” Tsunade giggles, scrambling to her feet to mirror him. “Jiraiya’s gonna be so happy. Hey, where are you off to in such a hurry?” 

Orochimaru glances back, peering from under the brim of his hat. “I have to go to the launders.”   
“I’ll come with you, then?” 

“If you want. It’ll be boring.” 

“Yeah, well, it would be, if I wasn’t coming.”

 

***

 

“I’m here for Hana’s kimono.” 

“Hana’s…” The shop girl pauses, thinking for a moment before understanding. “Just wait here a second— Yuna-san? I’ve got someone here asking about Hana’s kimono!” 

There’s some muffled shouting in response from the back rooms, followed by a crash and sound of things falling. The cashier frowns. “I’ll just… go see if she’s okay,” she says, and scuttles off.   

Orochimaru and Tsunade sit down on a small bench by the door, Tsunade trying to hide her obvious unfamiliarity with public launders by pointedly staring at the floor, not looking at anything. The little establishment is silent but for the faint clamor of the staff from the back rooms; Tsunade speaks first. 

“Did you get my gift?”

Orochimaru frowns. “Gift?” 

“You know, the gift money. From my family.” She scratches the side of her face, looking almost abashed. “Since we couldn’t be at the funeral, I thought— well, you know. We wanted to help however we could, so if paying for the service…” She trails off. “Your old lady said she’d let you know. Maybe she forgot?”

Just as Orochimaru’s about to respond, an elderly little woman emerges from the back, bearing two kimono boxes; she stares at him for a few moments before her face changes in recognition.

“You look just like her,” she says wistfully, setting the boxes on the counter. “It was Orochimaru, wasn’t it?”

Orochimaru nods. 

“My sympathies, child. Truly. Hana was a good woman. And to die in a fire…” 

“Tsukikage-san said you still had some of her things,” Orochimaru says, not wanting to linger on the topic. Yuna sighs sadly, pushing the boxes across.

“Yes, two of her kimono. The cream furisode, and the black with embroidered cranes. Beautiful things… such taste, she had.” 

“How much?”

Yuna stares at him, almost affronted, snapping out of her reverie. “How  _ much _ ?” she asks incredulously. “Just take them, my poor child, take them. They’re all you have left of her.” 

 

“Not for long,” Orochimaru mutters, once they’re out of the shop. Tsunade frowns. 

“What d’you mean?”

“I have to sell them, they’re valuables.” 

“ _ What—” _

“Keep your voice down.” He glances around as if they’re discussing a crime they’re about to commit, then continues. “I have to sell them, Tsukikage-san wants me to get in the habit of supporting myself.”

“What? But you’re just a kid!” 

Orochimaru shrugs. “We’re going to be chuunin soon. We won’t be kids after that.” 

Tsunade quiets, her small brows knit together; they walk in silence to the end of the street. 

“I’ve got it,” she says triumphantly. “If you have to sell them, I’ll buy them.”

“Tsunade—”

“No, listen. I can afford whatever, and my granny can keep them with all her kimono, and that way you aren’t really losing them. ‘Kay?”

Orochimaru pouts, for the first time weighing his pride against advantage. As he always would do from then on, he opts for the latter. 

“Fine.” 

 

***

 

Hiruzen takes Orochimaru to his parent’s grave once a week, to leave fresh flowers; Hiruzen’s got awfully good at charming Yamanaka into giving him her leftover supplies. Biwako’s never happy about it, but no-one can say no to  _ it’s for the orphan!  _ No need to mention it wasn’t for one of the cute, sweet-natured ones. So he meets Orochimaru at the gate and they walk the short trip to the cemetery, a big bouquet of beautiful white Easter lilies cradled in Orochimaru’s arms like a baby. Hiruzen’s particularly proud of that haul, watching the kid sniff them one last time before laying them gently on the headstone, a little glass weight tied to the base of the bouquet so the flowers aren’t blown away.

“What is this?”

Orochimaru holds a papery white thing in his hand gently, careful so as not to break it; Hiruzen’s apprehensive at first,  _ I told you not to pick up trash off the ground, it’s dirty,  _ but on looking closer he’s just as intrigued as the kid. 

“Why, that’s a white snake-skin. That’s a very rare thing, Orochimaru!” He isn’t sure if it is rare, actually— he’s pretty sure all shed skins are white, and there are plenty of snakes in Fire country— but hey, it was something. “Snakes shed their skin so they can grow, and cast off parasites. In the old times, this would be a symbol of good fortune, and rebirth.” 

“Good fortune and rebirth,” Orochimaru echoes quietly, running his fingers along the scale ridges. Hiruzen gently ruffles his hair.

“It must be some kind of karma that you found it here, Orochimaru. Perhaps means your parents have been reborn somewhere, into new lives.”

“Will I get to see them?”

Hiruzen isn’t sure how to answer that; the intricacies of spiritual reincarnation are a tricky topic to explain to a bereaved eight-year-old. 

“Maybe one day, when you grow up,” he tries.

“When will that be?” 

“I couldn’t say.” 

Orochimaru goes quiet, stroking the thing softly with one small fingertip; a warm breeze brushes past gently, airy and brief before the air is still and humid again. Hiruzen watches, his face neutral. It’s a strange moment, like the world’s gone silent out of respect; like everything ceased to exist outside this grassy place, like Hiruzen and this strange child are the only living souls left on this earth. The heat waves are rippling off the gravestones; Orochimaru’s hair billows in the breeze like laundry hung up to dry. 

There was just something about this kid. Hiruzen can’t quite put his finger on what. 

“Why is it white?”

“I can’t tell you that, either,” Hiruzen says. “I don’t have all the answers.”

“Why?”

The whys would be the death of him. Orochimaru always had an insatiable curiosity to know the hows and the whys of everything imaginable, even moreso than the average knowledge-hungry child. Why this, why that, why bird, why bat; If a less patient man had been given Orochimaru as a student, things might have ended up very differently. But Hiruzen chuckles, and ruffles Orochimaru’s hair.

“I don’t know. Maybe one day you can find out all these answers, and when you do, you can come and find me.” 

“You might not be alive by then.”

_ He’s a child, Hiruzen.  _ “Better hurry, then. I’m getting old.” Hiruzen does a little exaggerated hobble and clutches at his chest, his best impression of one of the old council members, Danzo’s father. The best face of death. 

Orochimaru smiles, but doesn’t laugh. He carries the snakeskin preciously cupped in his small hands, all the way home. 

 

***

 

Orochimaru greets Mrs Tsukikage with the jingle of gold coins in a small linen bag, which he finds is the ticket to her affection; she’s almost beside herself, counting the coins on the table. 

“You sold them already! You must have a silver tongue when you put your mind to it, Orochimaru-kun. So fast, and for so much!”

“Yes,” Orochimaru says. He decides he won’t mention Tsunade bought it for him out of pity. 

“Well, very well done,” she says, smiling as she stacks the coins back into the pouch. “I’m going to put half of this in savings for you, and the other half we’ll buy some supplies with tomorrow for you. Good?” 

“Yes, Tsukikage-san.” 

“Good.” She gives him a tentative kiss atop his head, and leaves to process the money, still beaming. Orochimaru pulls his special thing out of the fold of his yukata once she’s gone, carefully unfolding it so as not to tear the delicate patterns; he strokes it again with one fingertip, running along the top of the snakeskin’s head, down its spine to the base of its tail, like it was some secret ritual. Carefully he wraps it in a sheet of Mr Tsukikage’s newspaper, and takes it back to his room, the one special thing among his sparse possessions. 

That night at dinner, Orochimaru’s bowl is full of the rice porridge’s best parts, not the watery gruel like usual; proper lumps of rice, spring onions, turnip and salted egg yolks are fished out of the pot and placed in his bowl before anyone else’s. Mrs Tsukikage brags endlessly of Orochimaru’s unprecedented salesmanship and responsibility to her family, even telling Ryota he could learn a thing or two from him, which Orochimaru can’t help but feel a twinge of smugness over. Ryota is told to stay and wash the dishes for the first time, while Orochimaru is excused. 

Sated and proud that night as the sky grows dark, Orochimaru pulls open the skylight to let the moon shine in, and takes the snakeskin from its newspaper nest; he lies on his side with his head on the bare futon, instead placing his pillow next to him, and resting the snakeskin atop.

“Good fortune and rebirth,” he whispers, with a secret smile. In the moonlight, the snakeskin looks almost silver, plump and full of life. Like it could slither into movement any second. 

Orochimaru has sweet dreams. 

 

*** 

 

“It must have eaten some of the pollen. Easter lilies are deadly poison to cats.” 

“It’s dead.”

“It’s just nature, Orochimaru. It’s not your fault.” 

Orochimaru just crouches next to the small corpse, rocking back and forth with his arms clutched around his middle, groaning softly. The cat is filthy, a little grey thing with matted fur and nicked ears and only half a tail. Its’ eyes are milky, leaking mucus, and a foamy vomit circles its half-open mouth, little teeth visible. A trail of red ants lead to it, where they swarm around its stomach and pile atop each other to get to the skin, as if they were hungry kittens suckling at its teats. It’s hard not to look in revolted fascination.

“Orochimaru, look— it was dying anyway, see the little bites and patches in the fur. It’s completely infested with ticks. Probably rabid, too. This was a good thing.” 

“It’s dead,” Orochimaru repeats, groaning and rocking, rocking and groaning. Hiruzen eyes him, alarmed as Orochimaru’s distress seems to grow. 

“We’ll get someone to take it away,” he says, patting Orochimaru’s back. “We can put new flowers, too.” 

“We have to bury it,” Orochimaru says in an ugly, creased-up voice, and Hiruzen realises that the child might be crying. His small white hands reach out to pick up the cat’s body, cupping under its chest and backside to cradle it, and Hiruzen has to forcibly pull Orochimaru away. 

“Orochimaru, you mustn’t touch it, it’s dead—”

Orochimaru screams the second Hiruzen’s hands touch him and groans more, suddenly bucking out, hissing and kicking at Hiruzen’s legs like he too had gone rabid. “We have to  _ bury  _ it,” he shouts, furious and hysterical; Hiruzen tightens his grip, pulling Orochimaru away from the grave, trying to restrain the flailing arms. “ _ Let me go,”  _ he shrieks, wild-eyed; Hiruzen sees now Orochimaru is indeed crying.  _ Didn’t cry at his own parent’s funeral,  _ something sceptical inside him whispers. The adult’s calmness in him wavers just for a moment as he feels teeth sink into his arm, hard; he feels skin break, and a curse escapes him, every muscle screaming to let go. He doesn’t. He holds tighter, and half carries, half drags Orochimaru away from the grave, out of the graveyard, snot-covered, kicking and screaming all the way. 

The fighting takes a while to subside, but it does, eventually. The groaning and fury retreat into shuddering, whole-body sobs, the struggling to total limpness, and Orochimaru cries into Hiruzen’s shoulder for a long time.

 

That evening, Biwako cleans, stitches, and dresses the bleeding bite wound on his forearm without saying a word. Her eyes convey what she’s thinking well enough.

“Biwako, don’t,” Hiruzen says.

“I didn’t,” she replies. 

 

***

 

Orochimaru got home just as the sun flirted with the idea of setting, a warm pink and orange light cresting the clouds over Konoha; Hiruzen walked him to the end of the Tsukikage’s dirt path, waved awkwardly when Orochimaru glanced back from the doorway. Orochimaru isn’t sure how he feels about it all, that day’s events. He thinks he’d like to forget all about it.

He’s quiet as a mouse returning home, slipping off his sandals and closing the door in complete silence; it’s only as a floorboard lets a loud  _ creak  _ on the walk to the stairs that Mrs Tsukikage hears him. 

“Orochimaru-kun!” she calls, waving him over. “Come, I’ve got something waiting for you.” 

He obeys, following her to the kitchen; from one of the cupboards, she pulls out a massive, brand-new sack of white rice, packed so full that Orochimaru can practically see the outline of each individual grain.

“White rice,” he murmurs, awed. “There’s so much.” 

“And  _ this _ is just for you,” she says, producing from the same cupboard a large glass jar. “Want to help me fill it up?” 

Orochimaru nods excitedly, both of them holding one half of a pair of scissors to cut open the sack; Mrs Tsukikage pours rice into the jar slowly, while Orochimaru squats and listens to the clatter of the grains against the glass. Once the jar is full, she screws the lid on tight and nudges it towards him as she seals up the bag. 

“All yours,” she says with a smile. “And you earned it.” 

Orochimaru copies her smile, a small childish grin, and swaddles up the jar like his newest prize possession; he puts it among his other things, in that small space beneath the tatami in his room. The white snake is there, too, in its newspaper bed; Orochimaru takes it out before placing the jar, so as not to accidentally crush or knock it. Before he goes to bed that night, Orochimaru takes the jar out and dips his fingers into it, swishing them around; the feeling’s gentle, like soft white sand; cool and powdery and fragrant. The same kind of nameless emotion he felt when he held the snakeskin. In the simple pleasure of those two tactile possessions he had to his name, focusing his mind to the tips of his fingers and the colour of white, he again dreams sweetly, and forgets all about the cat. 

The sweetness doesn’t last. 

 

*** 

 

“What’re you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie, you’re holding something. What is it?”

“None of your business.”

“Why can’t I  _ see— _ ”

“Let go—”

“I just want to look at it, just give it to me, don’t be mean—”

“You’re going to tear it, brat—”

“Ooh, what  _ is this— _ ”

“ _ Give it back—” _

“ _ Ow— Mama! Mama, Orochimaru’s—”  _

 

Mrs Tsukikage slams open the door to Orochimaru’s room to find the two boys fighting, rolling about on the floor violently; Orochimaru’s hissing and shouting, clawing at Ryota’s arm to make him let go of something, while Ryota screams and yanks at Orochimaru’s hair in an attempt to hold him away from it. At her entry, Ryota stops fighting immediately; Orochimaru takes the opportunity to snatch his prize back, holding it close to him, looking feral. Silence falls on both of them, panting. 

“What on  _ earth  _ do you two think you’re doing?!” 

“Mama, look,” Ryota says weepily, “Orochimaru hit and scratched me—” He holds out his arms and taps his cheek, all raw and beginning to mark with bright red lines left from Orochimaru’s fingernails raking across the skin. 

“You shouldn’t have stolen my  _ things, _ ” Orochimaru hisses in retaliation, which prompts new tears from Ryota.

“Enough!” Mrs Tsukikage turns on Orochimaru. “Orochimaru-kun, is that true?” 

Orochimaru shrugs, looking away. “He wouldn’t give it back. I told him not to take it and he wouldn’t listen.” 

“I just wanted a  _ look, _ ” Ryota sobs angrily, red as a cherry. “You’re always so  _ horrible  _ to me and all I  _ want  _ is to be friends—”

“Give it to me,” Mrs Tsukikage says coldly to Orochimaru. He stares at her, not moving, clutching it protectively. “Orochimaru, show me now.” 

Reluctantly, stormy-faced, Orochimaru gently hands her the small bundle of paper. Precious cargo.

Mrs Tsukikage’s scowl turns to a frown of bewilderment as she unfolds the parcel, poking around and holding up the thing delicately, with the tips of her thumb and forefinger. “What is it?”

“It’s a shed snakeskin,” Orochimaru says. “I found it at the graveyard.” 

She shrieks and flings it away as if bitten. 

After a long, thorough scolding about bringing dead things into the house, dirt and waste and rubbish and so on, Mrs Tsukikage disposes of the snakeskin, placing it in an empty metal candy tub with a pair of chopsticks and dropping it in the waste outside:  _ neither of you know how to behave, so neither of you will have it. Disgusting. _

The children go to bed without any supper that night, and in the early hours the next morning just as first light begins to turn the world pale blue, Orochimaru watches as a lone, haggard binman approaches, hefts the waste sack onto his cart, and retreats into the fog. 

 

*** 

 

“Hey, weirdo. Knock knock, you still in there?”

Orochimaru blinks. “What?”

“ _ Told _ you he wasn’t listening,” Tsunade says from up ahead, smug. Jiraiya pulls a face at her, then nudges Orochimaru with his elbow. 

“C’mon. I said you’ve been all sullen today. Whole mission, not a word.”

Orochimaru shrugs, nonchalant. “I had a good luck charm,” he says. “It got taken away. I’m annoyed.” 

“Huh.” Jiraiya stares, puzzled; whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. “Well, can’t you get it back?” 

“It was thrown away,” Orochimaru says curtly. “I can’t get it back.” 

“What, like in the rubbish? You probably can, if it was just today. Out in the garbage dump.” 

Orochimaru looks at him. “The garbage dump.”

“Yeah, my folks used to send me there all the time. You can find really good stuff, I ain’t even lying.” 

“Ew,” Tsunade scoffs. “You  _ would  _ go fishing in the trash.” 

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be royalty and wipe our ass with gold,” Jiraiya shoots back. “Me and Orochi, we’re men of the people, here. Girls are just too scared to get their hands dirty.” 

“She gets her hands dirty every time she hits you,” Orochimaru points out. 

“Hey, are you on my side here or what? I was gonna help you find your stupid special rock or whatever, jackass.” 

“It’s a snakeskin, not a rock.” 

“Same thing.”

“It’s really not.” 

“Are you three all right back there?” Hiruzen’s stopped in his tracks, hands on his hips. “We’re almost at the ambush point. Focus, please, kids.”

“Quit calling us kids, sensei,” Jiraiya retorts. “You’re not even that much older than us.” 

“Jiraiya, you know the Chunin Exams are in two months, yes?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jiraiya mutters, “Whatever.” He turns back to Orochimaru just as they ready to jump into the trees, mouthing,  _ After the mission, yeah? _

 

*** 

 

“Man, this place has gone to muck.”

Orochimaru snorts, staring at the putrid heap of waste festering against the wall. “It’s a rubbish dump. What did you expect?” 

“It just used to be tidier, that’s all I’m saying,” Jiraiya says, rolling up his sleeves and wading in. Orochimaru involuntarily grimaces. “Cleaner, too. Oh, look, someone threw their toothbrush out! What an idiot.” 

Orochimaru just groans, shaking his head in disgust, and walks to a less dense part of the pile of rubbish, where the items were newer. The stench is almost more than he can stomach, thick and hot and foul in the air; he can practically feel it coating his airways. He grimaces, sucking in a breath. 

“So, what am I looking for, exactly?” 

“It’s a white snakeskin,” Orochimaru replies. “But Tsukikage-san put it in an empty tub of Haruno brand candy, so look for that.” 

There’s a muffled sound of affirmation, followed by more loud crashing as Jiraiya sifts through the trash, unnecessarily throwing anything he deemed worthless over his shoulder. Conversely, Orochimaru picks his way through delicately, searching only the outermost edges of the waste heap, not using his hands if he has to. Flies buzz about the refuse, trying to get to the liquid or rotting food waste that had no doubt fallen beneath the bigger items; broken furniture, debris, dead plants, beams, various kinds of packaging, scraps of cloth. Every now and then, Jiraiya will call,  _ ‘Is this it?’ _ and hold up a candy tub; each and every time it’s the wrong one, or worse, identical to the one Orochimaru’s looking for, but empty. 

By the time the sun starts to set, glowering a deep orange on the rear end of Konoha’s walls, both children are filthy and close to giving up hope. 

“It should be here,” Orochimaru says quietly, dropping an empty cardboard box. 

“Maybe somebody else took it,” Jiraiya suggests weakly, wiping his forehead with the back of his forearm.

“Why would they?”

“I dunno, man.” 

Orochimaru groans, stepping away from the refuse pile to sit on a grass patch a little ways out, hanging his head. The sun feels like it’s beating down on his back. 

Jiraiya hovers, looking stumped, before moving to join him; he takes a seat beside Orochimaru, sitting flat on the grass where Orochimaru squats uncomfortably. “Ah, I’m sorry, Orochi. I really thought we could’ve found it here. But hey, though, look.” He holds up a rustling paper bag. “Free karaage. Some idiot dummy threw it out. It’s not even old, it’s fresh! What a fool.” Jiraiya pops a piece into his mouth, crunching it, then good-naturedly holds the bag out to Orochimaru.

“You are so disgusting,” he says, repulsed. Jiraiya shrugs, grinning.

“Suit yourself,” he chuckles, his mouth still full of trash chicken. “More for me.” He leans back on his palms, sighing and crunching contentedly. Orochimaru shakes his head disdainfully, glancing away, eyes combing the skip one last time as if he’d see it from a distance.

He didn’t want to lose it, that snakeskin. He’d learned, of course, since he got it, that shed snakeskins were nothing uncommon in Konoha, especially not in summer; he probably could’ve found another, if he went out into the woods. But it wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be a sign. It wouldn’t bring him fortune. It wouldn’t be his parents.

“Hey, what about over there? Did we look there?” Jiraiya says suddenly, interrupting Orochimaru’s thoughts. He follows Jiraiya’s line of sight; he’s pointing at a less densely populated corner of the trash heap, held in shadow from the light; a few wooden planks lean against the wall, along with a cheap metal laundry rack covered in rust; some heaps of tarp lie about the floor, and a few plastic bin-bags. 

“I doubt it’s there,” Orochimaru says. “That all looks old.”

“Yeah, but we haven’t looked.” 

Orochimaru shrugs.  _ I suppose not. _

As they approach, the air thickens, dense with clouds of tiny brown gnats; blowflies sit on the bits of rubbish stubbornly, only flying away when Orochimaru’s close enough he could touch them, like they’d grown roots. The smell is almost unbearable; even Jiraiya clasps his sleeve over his nose and mouth in a futile attempt to lessen it. Orochimaru, desensitised to it now, takes a deep breath and rips open a black house bin-bag, poking about through the contents with a stick. Jiraiya wades a little deeper, throwing things about in the same manner he had earlier. 

“Gross,” he says, kicking one of the piles of plastic bags; a rat scurries out, then darts back in via another entrance. “Good thing we didn’t bring the washing-board, huh.  _ Oooh, Jiraiya, it’s so disgusting here. A rat, I think I’ll faint. Fetch my grandpa. _ ” He does a little mock-swoon, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead dramatically, and minces around. It’s as he flails, duck-footed, that he wobbles; and as he tries to steady himself his foot catches under an old pipe, sending him crashing face-first into the heap of tarps and bamboo mats. A whole blanket of flies lift from where he lands in shock, like skittish pigeons. 

“Idiot,” Orochimaru snorts, as Jiraiya angrily props himself up on his hands. 

“Agh, shut up,” he mutters, but his face softens when he notices Orochimaru’s chuckling, and then breaks into a broad smile of his own. It’s a nice moment, that freeze-frame of a sunset, Jiraiya sat elbow-deep in rubbish, Orochimaru squatting in the dirt, the air stinking around them and both of them laughing like a pair of fools. As the giggling subsides, Jiraiya moves to get up; his hand clinks against something, buried between two sacks of refuse. “Hey, what’s…” 

He rummages around, and finally pulls it free; a small, square, glinting metal tin. Grinning, he throws it to Orochimaru; Orochimaru deftly catches it, and with bated breath, pulls open the lid. 

And there it is, his treasure, crumpled and dusty, a little piece of newspaper still stuck between its folds. Orochimaru doesn’t say anything, just beams. That’s all the answer Jiraiya needs. 

“Well,” he announces, letting out a sigh of relief, “All’s well that ends well, huh.”

Orochimaru just smiles at him again, so Jiraiya smiles back. “Right. Well, help me up, then?” 

Orochimaru nods, and holds out his hand for Jiraiya to grab, hoisting him up. As Jiraiya rises, a piece of tarp latched to his trousers from where he was sat on it comes up with him, and unleashes from underneath a stench worse than anything either of them have ever smelled, along with a cloud of flies that linger in the air and refuse to go away. 

Jiraiya, who looks behind him to free himself, sees it first. He screams, high-pitched and shrill, and practically throws himself backwards; he scrambles back, getting to his feet as he goes, pulling Orochimaru with him away from the trash pile. 

“There’s— it’s a person— ‘Maru,  _ don’t— _ ” 

Orochimaru’s already flipped back the tarp using the end of his stick, showing off what was hidden beneath to the sunlight. 

A man, dressed in rags, lies there; his eyes are closed, his skin covered in deep red lesions that seem to puff out of him like fungus. He’s pale and discolored in patches, grey towards the top; the flies, though, are a telltale sign that he’s dead, crawling all over him, rubbing their feet together. 

Orochimaru can’t seem to tear his eyes away, in some sort of morbid, horrified fascination; he stays transfixed until Jiraiya jogs over, tugging him away until the corpse isn’t visible, concealed by the debris that surrounds it. 

“We— we should tell someone,” Jiraiya says, holding his hand over his mouth, looking pale. “Like, one of the jonin, or sensei, or something. Maybe he’s— missing.” 

“He was a leper,” Orochimaru says, pointing back. “I doubt anyone knew who he was. They wouldn’t have let him through the gates, so he went back here and...” He trails off. There’s a long, awful silence; the sun is almost completely gone now, and the light’s gone from orange to pink to blue, threatening dusk at any moment. Their noses feel numb to the stench. 

“God.” Jiraiya turns away, clutching his stomach. “I feel sick.” 

“Go home,” Orochimaru murmurs, putting a hand on Jiraiya’s shoulder. “I’ll go and tell Sarutobi-sensei. He’d be more mad at you for walking out here.”

“True, he never gets mad at you,” Jiraiya chuckles weakly, nauseous and pale. “Thanks, Orochi. I’m gonna… I’m gonna go.” 

Jiraiya takes two steps, then doubles over and spurts sick onto the dead grass. He stays there until he’s heaving nothing, spitting out any traces of vomit left in his vomit, trying to rid himself of the taste; his hands twist on the ground, dirt collecting under his nails. Orochimaru doesn’t know what to do, so he does nothing.

“Stupid,” he mutters, wiping his mouth. “We’re shinobi. I shouldn’t be like this.”

“It’s understandable,” Orochimaru says reassuringly. “It’s your first time seeing a dead person.”

That seems to sting Jiraiya in a way Orochimaru doesn’t understand, because he goes quiet, and for a moment Orochimaru thinks he might actually cry. Instead he looks away, wipes his face again, sucks in a shuddery breath and nods. The acrid stench of vomit fills the already-rotten air. 

“Go home,” Orochimaru says again. “I’ll take care of it.” 

Jiraiya is still and silent for a moment, then nods, wiping his eyes with the corner of his sleeve. He walks a reasonable distance, then breaks into a sprint when he’s far enough that Orochimaru shouldn’t logically be watching any more. But Orochimaru watches him go until he disappears past the trees. 

 

***

 

When Orochimaru returns home that night, still covered in dirt and stinking, he’s prepared for the chewing-out; before going inside he removes the metal tub from the folds of his kimono and puts it out of sight, tucked in a rabbit-hole in the garden; when Mrs Tsukikage strips him and lifts him into the large bucket-bathtub, he has nothing to hide.

He’s scrubbed clean with a scratchy, wide-bristled brush until his skin’s red-raw and the water is grey with filth; his clothes soak in a plastic tub outside, full of strong-smelling chemicals. Mrs Tsukikage scolds him all the while, from the second he gets home to the small of night as he huddles in a thin towel while she brushes his wet hair;  _ you shouldn’t be exposing yourself to such germs,  _ she says angrily,  _ you know you share your mother’s health.  _ He doesn’t mention that he went to the rubbish skip behind the Konoha border walls, and she doesn’t ask, happy to assume it was just another gruelling part of the mission. Her chastisement comes with a small grain of tired pride, her irresponsible lodging soldier-son.

Orochimaru makes himself rice after she and her family are all asleep, his still-full jar sat on the counter while the pot boils. And when he’s quite sure no one will hear, when the snoring from Mr Tsukikage practically shakes the foundations of the house, he sneaks outside and retrieves the tin, gently opens it and tips out his treasure. With the snakeskin cupped between them, Orochimaru dips his hands into the jar of rice just like he did the day it was filled and the night after that before bed, and buries the snake underneath, deep into the heart of the jar, like burying a treasure in sand. It’s all too white to see from outside, but Orochimaru knows if he puts his hand in the jar again, he could reach until he touched it, that small dried white snake, quietly bringing him luck from its hiding place where it was invisible. 

And nightly Orochimaru sifts it out, carefully holding it in his palm, running his small hand through the grains, digging until he feels that dry, papery secret; he shakes the rice off it, out of its nooks and crannies, gently brushes the white starchy dust out of its fine scale grooves. When he held it, childish imagination though it may have been, he felt the wind rush him just like it did in the graveyard that warm day; he felt touched by something bigger than him, bigger than the Tsukikages, bigger than Konoha, bigger than the world. Something invisible that could only be felt in the rushing of the breeze and the rustling of drying maple leaves. His saving grace, his moon in the bucket, his serpent in the rice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone's interested, the name 'tsukikage' comes from a kabuki of the original sannin myth - in that version, a young orochimaru saves one lord of a clan named tsukikage from a demonic snake spirit. the lord takes orochimaru in out of gratitude and adopts him as a son, however unbeknownst to him, orochimaru had in fact been possessed by the snake spirit from the start; together they had staged the attack.  
> over time, orochimaru & the demon manipulated the lord into murdering or disowning all his children, leaving orochimaru as his sole successor.


	4. Monkey

“Tsukikage-san,” Orochimaru asks one night at dinner, when Ryota and his father have both gone out for barbeque. “I… had a question. About my parents.”

“Hardly a mealtime topic of conversation, boy,” Mrs. Tsukikage chides sternly, but there’s something soft in her voice. Orochimaru got the sense that she was the type of person to jump at any opportunity to give an opinion. “Oh, poor things. Such a shame, and so young. Your poor mother, she was so beautiful…”

“Why were they killed?”

Mrs. Tsukikage drops her chopsticks and stares at him, affronted. “You mean Sarutobi-san never _told_ you? Oh dear me, Orochimaru-kun. I’m surprised you didn’t hear, it’s all over town… well, _apparently_ , someone had already tipped off the Intel corps that there were Suna spies among the Konoha troops, some ANBU agent— some new prodigy spy, a nun, or something. Anyway, they knew there were traitors among the returning forces, but interrogations would’ve been too much work, they’re so understaffed since all the money went on that festival for the Senju brat. Very, very irresponsible, that. I mean, of course posturing and good cheer is important in times like these, no one can fight on low morale, but all that for one baby? Ridiculous.”

“Tsukikage-san, my parents,” Orochimaru urges quietly. Mrs. Tsukikage jolts, as if she’d forgotten Orochimaru was in the room.

“Of course, of course. So anyway, they know there’s traitors hoping to do some damage to the heart of Konoha now that the border battle was won, find out where we’re weakest and so on, but they aren’t really bothered to smoke them out. So, what do they do instead? Just offer stipends for housing them to the poor houses _outside_ the village. No one wealthy enough to live inside the city is going to want some depressed or wounded soldiers in their lovely new Konoha house, yes? And a spy in one of those big fancy new apartment blocks, well, think of the information they could soak up, surrounded by all those high-ranking shinobi. In one night they could learn all about the village’s defenses, civilian fears, the Hokage’s plans, take them back to their bosses, and then the whole village is in a crisis. But dump them with some poor, nothing family from a farming district, country folk who barely know a thing? Well. A little sacrifice and the traitors are ousted, ordinary village folk none the wiser. Just one more pawn to protect the King, as they say in shogi. Do you play shogi, Orochimaru?”

Orochimaru’s still, staring at the wooden table, his bowl of porridge forgotten; mouth slightly ajar. He hardly even hears the question. “My parents were sacrifices?”

“Well, I _say_ sacrifices. It wasn’t _meant_ to happen; the higher-ups didn’t think traitors would bother actually attacking such an insignificant target, since it’d do so little damage to the village as a whole, and it’s hardly likely your family suspected anything, but... I suppose they were wrong. This whole thing’s very embarrassing for the Shodaime... no doubt they’ll quietly cover this up, and in a year or two he’ll step down. In fact, if you hadn’t survived, I doubt it would’ve gotten out at all. But that’s war, isn’t it? Terrible thing.” She reaches over, patting Orochimaru on the head lightly and tensely, the same way one might pick up a slug to throw it out of a cabbage patch. “More tea?”

* * *

Orochimaru cries out in his sleep that night, waking up at odd hours, and the night after that. The bad dreams come for him like a plague, like a swarm of blowflies to the leper corpse in the dumping ground. Orochimaru remembers the dripping blood on his face. He remembers the koto smashing to the ground with its final musical note. He remembers the woman at the funeral who called him _disturbed_ in hushed tones.

He very much feels disturbed.

“Oh, for God’s— you’ve wet the bed again, you disgusting child.”

“I’m sorry,” Orochimaru mumbles.

“What? What was that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Damn right, you are. We take you in out of respect for my friendship with your dear passed mother, and this is the gratitude I get— revolting. You’ll clean this up, and pay for new sheets yourself. Anything like this again and you’re for the orphanage, understand? There’s plenty of children out there who would be much more deserving of a house and a family, and more grateful.”

Orochimaru nods, before adding quietly: “I think it’s because of what you told me at dinner the other night, Tsukikage-san.”

“And now you’re _blaming_ me? Oh, _unbelievable._ How Hana put up with a son like you, I’ll never know.”

“I wasn’t,” he begins, but she’s already gone, stomping down the stairs and muttering. It’s probably something to do with the shouting he overheard coming from her and her husband’s room last night, but Orochimaru feels no desire to find out more. The bed-wetting doesn’t stop that night, obviously, and not for many nights after; but he learns to wake up early, take precautions, be diligent and respectful like his mother would have expected. And sheets, as it happens, aren’t unaffordable if you steal them from your best friend’s house when she’s out of the room. It wasn’t like anyone would miss them.

* * *

The days turn to weeks. The weeks go to months. The weather changes.

Orochimaru floats by in a state of transience, only half-present; Sarutobi-sensei’s Chunin Exam training drills, C-rank missions, team dinners at Tsunade’s home, new techniques, all of these Orochimaru swims through without incident, smooth as silk; all of life is so easy that he barely needs to pay attention to it. To say Orochimaru feels like a passenger wouldn’t be accurate; it’s more that he doesn’t feel, at all.

Things with his adopted family progress in a similar fashion; good moments, bad moments, ultimately amount to nothing. Orochimaru sits through the brunt of most of it dead-eyed and silent as a mouse, waiting for an opening to leave. He spends little time with them as a result; at some point the frustration wears off for Mr Tsukikage, who finally just shakes his newspaper with indifference and says to his wife, _Don’t bother, he wants to be left alone,_ and Mrs Tsukikage who sadly wrings her hands and says _I really tried,_ and Ryota who waits until Orochimaru’s halfway up the stairs or sat outside on the veranda before commenting, _There’s definitely something wrong with him,_ and is met with telling silence.

* * *

Two days before the Chunin Exams’ written paper is to take place, Team Hiruzen meet in the training field under a cold winter sun to squeeze in some last minute refinement of their techniques. Orochimaru spars with Sarutobi— and matches him, fighting with such an icy fervor that Jiraiya almost thinks their sensei has to stop holding back in order to keep up. Jiraiya is left to battle with Tsunade, over on the other end of the field, but after two hours have passed wherein Jiraiya has lost twelve matches and Orochimaru and Sarutobi’s duel still hasn’t let up in the slightest, the drive fades somewhat. Tired, cold, and bored, Jiraiya and Tsunade settle for sitting huddled on the dead earth, catching their breath. Hiruzen either doesn’t care that they’re taking a break, or he doesn’t notice at all, which judging by the intensity of his match seems the more likely option.

“Okay, I can’t be the only one who’s thinking it.”

“What?”

Jiraiya rolls his eyes, as if it’s obvious, and gestures. “Orochimaru. He’s different lately, don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”

Tsunade scoffs. “His parents died, of course he’s different.”

“Did they die? He says they were killed.”

Tsunade grimaces, and makes an awkward face, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, well. He’s just not right.”  
“How?”

“He laughs at my jokes now.”

Tsunade snorts. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Well, he never _used_ to laugh at my jokes.”

“You’re just mad that you can’t be mean to him any more because Sarutobi-sensei will tell you off.”

“Am not!”  
“Are too.”

Jiraiya groans and rolls his eyes dismissively, aiming a mock-punch at her head, which she swats away with a small chuckle.

“Don’t know why they’re even bothering to train, anyway. He’s got it in the bag, look at him.”

“Yeah, ‘cause he’s training, and you’re sat here on your butt complaining about it. You wanna know why he’s better, it’s staring you in the face.”

“Okay, whatever. Why’s he get to train with Sarutobi-sensei? Because he’s Sensei’s favorite, that’s why. So that’s, like, unfair to us.”

“Don’t be jealous, Jiraiya.”

“You’re jealous too.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

Tsunade doesn’t deny it again; she gets up with a sigh, and dusts herself off, her breath forming a cloud of steam in the air.

“Come on,” she says. “They must be getting tired by now. Let’s squeeze in another round.”

* * *

“Work hard,” calls Father from the street.

“Yes, dad,” Ryota says, and waves as his father strides away from the school gates. As soon as he’s gone, Ryota pulls a face after him.

Ryota’s in a terrible mood throughout the morning. He’s in a terrible mood because all his family talk about lately is stupid Orochimaru and his stupid Chunin Exams. If they’d wanted a shinobi in the family so damn much, maybe they should’ve sent their son to the Academy. Just a thought.

“But ninjutsu is so _cool_ ,” replies Akki, Ryota’s classmate, who is pretty but an idiot. “Has he taught you any? You know they say anyone can be a shinobi, as long as they learn how to control their chakra.”

“No,” Ryota says crossly. “He’s horrible to me and my parents, I’ve told you. They only keep him for the money, but they still never shut up about how amazing shinobi are. Shinobi, shinobi, shinobi. Like it’s so amazing and smart to sneak around and cut people’s throats. I can’t wait until next week, when those exams are over. I’m so sick of hearing about shinobi.”

Akki sighs, dreamily. “I wish _my_ parents had let me become a shinobi.”

“Orochimaru’s parents let him become a shinobi, and you know what happened to them?”

“What?”

“They burned to death,” Ryota snaps. But he doesn’t think Akki’s listening to him.

* * *

At midday when the white sun reaches its highest point in the sky, Hiruzen takes his exhausted team to Ichiraku Ramen, to congratulate them all on a job well done. _Nothing to give you back your energy like a good meal,_ he’d always say, and promptly have mimicked back to him as the three children chose the most expensive items on the menu.  

“You’re going to run me into bankruptcy, the three of you,” he sighs wearily, watching Jiraiya order another plate of karaage. “Tsunade, surely you, at least, would—”

“ _Wow_ ,” Tsunade interrupts, mouth full of grilled chicken. “Sensei, are you asking a little girl to pay for her own meal? That’s so tacky. That’s, like, the lowest of the low.”

“Yeah,” Jiraiya joins in. “How do you call yourself a man? Tsunade can have all the karaage she wants, you old wrinkled grandpa.”

“I’m twenty-three,” Hiruzen protests weakly. No one listens.

“You’re the one who ordered karaage, Jiraiya,” Orochimaru points out, wry.

“Maybe I ordered it for her.”

“But you didn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that.”

“You think you’re _so_ clever—”

The boys’ bickering is interrupted by the loud _bang_ of Tsunade’s empty bowl being slammed on the counter. “Seconds please,” she says, beaming at the young cook. “With extra chargrilled chicken breast and menma.”

Jiraiya cackles as a crestfallen but thoroughly resigned Hiruzen forks over another portion of his wallet to the staff, and Tsunade grins in satisfaction, wiping soup off her chin, while Orochimaru, bewildered, inquires where she kept all that food.

 

A few streets away from this happy group, and a few storeys higher, Ryota Tsukikage sits by his classroom window and watches enviously as a handful of Shinobi Academy children run about the streets, casting hand-signs at each other, appearing and disappearing in puffs of smoke; playing with their skills for fun. Ninja magic. Stupid, stupid dad.

“That’s not how you do it,” Ryota says loudly, not looking up. His classmates, who were at that moment all rapt in watching a class clown named Jun demonstrate how to throw a shuriken at a wall beam, quiet down. Jun stops his demonstration, rounding on Ryota.

“Oh, yeah? What would you know about it? My best friend is a shinobi, y’know.”

“Can’t be a very good one then,” Ryota replies, bored. “That’s not a real shuriken you’re throwing, is it? That’s a magnet.”

There’s a murmur of surprise that passes around the class, all curious, their wholehearted admiration for Jun a moment ago now nonexistent.

“It’s not,” Jun says, on the defensive, but someone standing near the wall has already pulled away one of the shuriken.

“It is,” they say triumphantly, holding it up and clicking it against the metal wall beam to show everyone. Humiliated, Jun snatches it away, holding it close; tears in his eyes.

“Like you could do better,” he says, hurt in his voice. “Just because you have an adopted brother, you think you’re so important, Tsukikage—”

Jun cuts himself off and runs out of the classroom, his magnetic ninja toys rattling in his pockets as they click together. That’d teach him for stealing Ryota’s pencil sharpener.

“Wow,” comes a girl’s breathless voice. Akki. “You really showed him, Ryota. How did you know they were fake?” A few other classmates are with her, nodding eagerly. Their approval washes over him warmly, now that it’s no longer directed at Jun.

“I have to listen to Orochimaru practice outside every morning,” he says with a modest smile. “I know the sound of shuriken too well. Besides, throwing stars don’t sink into metal. That’s just logic.”

“Wow,” Akki says again, with a nods of agreement from some of the girls behind her.

“Do you know any ninjutsu, Ryota-kun?” asks another classmate, perching on their desk. Everyone who had been watching Jun was now watching him, just as intently.

“A little,” Ryota says honestly, “But it’s nothing flashy. I just have some control over my chakra. I could hide from a ninja if I wanted to, by suppressing my chakra— that one’s easy, everyone should learn how to do it. But I can also focus it, and do things like this—”

He quietly takes a breath and stands up on his chair, then takes a step onto the windowsill. And another. He’s been practicing this move for months, copying Orochimaru in secret on the wall of his bedroom; he can only do a few steps before he falls, but it’s enough, as long as it looks deliberate.

There’s a hush of silence over his classmates as Ryota walks up and then back down the wall; then, as he sits himself back at his desk, Akki starts to clap, as do a few others; some of the boys cheer, and another near him asks if he can teach them to do it. It feels good. _I’m good at this,_ Ryota thinks. And then, bitter: _I should have been able to do this. Dad should have let me do this. I bet Dad would hate that I can do this._

For the rest of the day, the glow of that moment keeps; the word spreads to other classes, and people approach him in-between lessons, all in awe at his small display of basic ninjutsu. That good mood stays right up until the end of school hours, when they stand and bow to the teacher, and gather up their things. It’s then, at around three-thirty in the afternoon, that Ryota catches sight of something unusual through the window as he zips up his schoolbag; Orochimaru is out in the street, along with that white-haired boy and the Senju girl. His team-mates. Ryota’s only seen them once or twice before, and only from a distance; Orochimaru never introduced him, or took any of them home. They’re with a man, that Sarutobi-san, the one who’s come for dinner a few times; he’s talking to them, telling them something. Probably about the Chuunin exams. That was all anyone talked about lately.

Still, Ryota watches, curious. He never sees Orochimaru with his team, away from home; whenever he spies on him he’s alone, not talking, not giving anything away, just training. Throwing shuriken at a tree stump or walking up the walls of the house. He’s cruel to Ryota whenever they talk— but Ryota doesn’t have any other siblings, and maybe it would be good to get closer to Orochimaru. He did lose his parents, after all; maybe Ryota’s been too quick to judge him. And it would be good to learn more ninjutsu. Dad would hate that, if Ryota got close to Orochimaru, because then he wouldn’t be able to keep threatening to kick him out. Like any lonely child, Ryota wants to impress someone who they actually respect - because Akki, Jun, all of those classmates, their approval was nice. But it didn’t mean anything. What did they know about ninjutsu, _real_ ninjutsu? They couldn’t even tell a real shuriken from a magnet.

Ryota feels confident, still, from his day’s popularity, from the approval of all his peers. He thinks maybe, if he gets Orochimaru alone, maybe shows him what he can do, Orochimaru will finally see that he’s not boring like his parents. Orochimaru doesn’t like his dad either, as far as Ryota can tell; they could talk about that. Maybe he’d finally be able to connect.

So as everyone changes out of their indoor shoes and into their normal ones, Ryota pushes past the crowds of students all in a rush to get home first, and leaves through a fire exit, running out to the street where he’d seen Orochimaru with his team, his outdoor shoes and his schoolbag still in his locker; he’d get them later, when he walked home with Orochimaru. He masks his chakra, now; his plan is to surprise Orochimaru by sneaking up on him. _Got you! I learned to do ninjutsu by watching you!_ It’ll work.

He sees the blonde Senju girl first, walking home on her own; they must have called it a day. Still, Orochimaru would be up ahead, making the way home— Ryota could catch up with him. He weaves his way through the street; it’s crowded at this time, what with all the non-Academy schoolchildren and people leaving work. Ryota stays close to the edge of the street, looking out for that white kimono and long black hair.

* * *

“...Trust me. You’ll all be fine.”

“Well, I _know_ I’ll be fine,” Tsunade says, getting up and dusting herself off. “Jiraiya’s the one who needs the comfort.”

“Now, Tsunade, we’ve been over this,” Hiruzen chides. “You know you can only pass if you all work as a team. It’s great that you’re confident, but don’t forget that all three of you have to—”

“I _know,_ sensei,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You told us a million times, it’ll all be fine. Okay. I gotta go.”

“What, already?” Jiraiya whines. “I thought we were gonna go to the market together and get grilled squid.”

“You’re _still_ hungry?” Hiruzen asks incredulously. “We ate less than an hour ago.” Jiraiya ignores him.

“Nope, sorry,” Tsunade says matter-of-factly with a glance at her shiny new watch. “I’ve got to go home. Baby brother stuff, you know, duty calls. Thanks for the food, sensei. Seeya, losers.” She sticks her tongue out at them and waves, then vanishes into the rushing crowd.

“They grow up so fast,” Hiruzen says dejectedly.

“Stupid baby Nawaki,” mutters Jiraiya. “ _‘Oh, I’m so important, I’m a baby, I need food and attention all the time. Wahh.’_ Am I right?”

“Sounds familiar, yes,” Orochimaru remarks, not looking at him. Jiraiya doesn’t pick up on the jab.

“Orochi. You’re still gonna hang out, right? Scope out some ladies with me and the old man?”

“No,” Orochimaru replies flatly. “I’m going to go too. Sorry.”

“ _What?!_ ”

Jiraiya raises his hands, speechless, as if he plans on physically holding Orochimaru back, but Orochimaru moves too fast; already, he’s readying himself to go, doing up a clasp on his hanten jacket. “Sorry.” He nods a farewell at them, putting his hands in the deep hanten pockets. “See you at the exam.”

With that, he too heads off, in the opposite direction from Tsunade.

“That’s not even the way to his house,” Jiraiya protests pathetically, wringing his hands. Hiruzen pats him on the head, giving his messy white hair a ruffle.

“Cheer up, kid. You won’t have to deal with them much longer, remember? Once you become chuunin, your team disbands.”

“That _doesn’t_ cheer me up,” Jiraiya wails, hugging his knees. Hiruzen chuckles.

“Oh? I thought you couldn’t stand them, hm? Aren’t you always saying how annoying and condescending they are?”

“Yeah, well.” Jiraiya huffs, muffling his face. “Maybe they grew on me.”

Hiruzen smiles, and puts a comforting arm around Jiraiya, giving him a squeeze. Jiraiya immediately lets out of a noise of embarassed disgust, shoving at him.

“Oi, quit it. Get off, you horrid old man.”

“C’mon, kid, I think you need a hug.”

“You sap— gerr _off me_ —”

“Excuse me,” comes an unfamiliar voice. Jiraiya and Hiruzen stop their familial playfighting in surprise, both glancing up; the speaker is a small boy, a little younger than Jiraiya, with dark brown hair in a wavy bowlcut. “You’re Orochimaru’s team, right?”

“Wow,” Jiraiya says from where he’s squashed against Hiruzen’s coat, “You’re like, one of those crazy smart private-school kids.”

“Hello, Ryota-kun,” Hiruzen says, nudging Jiraiya sternly. “Yes, are you looking for him?”

“He went that way,” Jiraiya offers, his free hand pointing in the direction Orochimaru had gone. Ryota frowns.

“That’s not the way to our house.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Jiraiya says. “Guy’s a weirdo.”

Ryota takes a moment to digest this, then nods. “Okay. Thank you.” And he’s gone as fast as he came. Jiraiya looks at Hiruzen, pulling a face of mock-intrigue.

“The plot thickens,” he says. “Thought Orochimaru hated that little brat.”

“Don’t be rude,” Hiruzen chides. “Maybe they put their differences aside. It’s always hard to adjust to a new member of the family.”

Jiraiya shrugs. “Don’t blame him. Orochimaru’s probably not the best brother you could have.”

“Jiraiya.”

“I’m just saying. C’mon, sensei, even you notice he’s different, right?”

Hiruzen sighs, releasing Jiraiya to sit properly; his heavy breath comes out in a cloud of steam. The sun’s going down, now, the early winter dusk fast approaching. “He’s gone through an awful ordeal, Jiraiya. People show grief in different ways.”

Jiraiya sighs, looking glum, and rests his face in his hands. “Yeah, I know. I just miss my best friend, y’know.”

“I understand. Things’ll get better, don’t you worry.” Hiruzen rubs Jiraiya’s back comfortingly. “Come on, it’s getting dark. We should call it a day.”

“Okay,” Jiraiya says tiredly, before his face suddenly ignites again. “Wait, what about the grilled squid?”

Hiruzen winces, but with one look at Jiraiya’s face, he gives in. “All right. Squid, then home.”

Jiraiya grins, troubles forgotten, and immediately launches into some inane tale, then another; babbling away as if he’d suddenly remembered everything he’d ever wanted to say all at once. Hiruzen suspects that Jiraiya, though he had a lively and big family of his own, often wanted for individual attention like this; even in a house with so much life and laughter, he supposes that having a family like an acting troupe also meant that it was difficult for one individual child to get the attention they needed without having to fight for it, without having to make a spectacle of themselves, causing trouble; writing graffiti on the walls or playing the class clown. He half-listens to Jiraiya’s rambling like a weary parent as they wait in line for the grilled squid, glancing out at the now-dark sky, and lets his thoughts also wander to those two other children under his care; Tsunade and her prestigious but distant family, her preening popularity with her classmates contrasted with that nurturing, kind girl he sees when she talks about her baby brother, or protectively stands up for her team when they aren’t around; now at home in that enormous house spending time with her grandmother, teaching that baby to walk. Orochimaru, wherever he’d gone now, probably running an errand or visiting the graveyard, always quiet, never helping anyone understand him; and that little boy who’d gone after him so excitedly. And he thinks, maybe it would all turn out alright for those children. Maybe they’d weather the cold world that waited for them.

“...Sensei. Sensei, are you even listening?”

Hiruzen blinks. “Hm?”

Jiraiya stares up at him with muted annoyance, before pointing out at the clearing street. “Did you even notice? It’s snowing.”

He looks, holding out his hand; a soft white dust is indeed dancing its way leisurely down, visible snowflakes landing on his skin before melting from the warmth. “So it is,” he murmurs, fascinated. Jiraiya just stares, still looking doubtful; Hiruzen chuckles apologetically. “I’m sorry, Jiraiya,” he says. “I was just lost in thought.”

“Weirdo,” Jiraiya says with a shrug, turning his attention back to the weather. “It’s a pretty one.”

“Yes,” Hiruzen agrees. “Look, it’s settling. This time tomorrow, everything’s going to be covered in white. There’ll be beautiful snowdrops come spring.”

Jiraiya nods, fascinated, before laughing. “Good thing that corpse at the waste ground isn’t still there, huh? That wouldn’t be a fun surprise when the snow melts.”

Hiruzen’s dazed smile slowly melts, just like that hypothetical snow, and gradually his brows knit into a frown, his eyes wide with alarm.

“What corpse?”

* * *

Orochimaru has a secret.

He hadn’t done anything wrong— at least, he didn’t think he had. He only watched nature take its course.

There was no crime in that.

The man had been dead when they found him, there was no mistaking that— by his clothes and his hair, he’d been alone for some time before. Orochimaru knows of the colonies, the nomadic shanty homes that existed of people with his ailment, but they didn’t come here; not since the Hidden Villages gained their reputation as major military settlements, around the time Orochimaru was born. His father had spoken of them once or twice with pity, spoken of tossing them a coin or a packet of seeds but no more, warning of their illness and its spread. _Terrible life to have,_ he’d say. _To be so hated and untouchable._

Orochimaru’s father was too recently dead for him to so directly disobey his wishes, so Orochimaru did not touch the corpse, not even to move or cover it. He brought a small offering of rice and three sticks of incense, like the one he’d made for his parents, and burned it nearby whenever he visited; other than that he did not approach. He came, and watched, and went. Almost daily. It was the same sort of feeling he’d have checking on a seedling he’d planted; eager to see progress, whatever form it took.

It doesn’t sicken him like it had Jiraiya. It frightens him. It confuses him. He feels drawn to it, this great unknown thing, this ugly truth of life. _This is what happens, now and forever, to the leper, you, to your parents, to everything on this world that lived, lives now, and will live._ Something harsh inside him commands, _This is the true state of being. Look at it._

_Look at it._

Orochimaru doesn’t remember much of his life before the Academy, but he does remember that when he was young, too young to really grasp the concept of death, he had always thought that once past their prime, as people grew older, they began to resemble babies once more. It had made perfect sense to his infant brain at the time; people began as babies, grew, walked straight and tall, and then began to shrink down again. Their hair lightened and they had less and less of it. They looked rounder and uglier, like babies; eventually they couldn’t walk, like babies. He’d never witnessed it, of course, nor does he remember where he got the idea; but for a certain period of his life, Orochimaru was certain that once people got old enough, they simply reverted back into babies, and began the life cycle all over again.

This was nonsense, of course, a whimsical theory to fill in the gaps left in an unformed brain’s logic by the monstrous, unknowable, and so terrible final concept of death. But it was a comforting idea, even if it was ridiculous. The thought that people didn’t die, they simply changed. He wonders if whoever began the religious idea of rebirth had thought the same thing as a child.

At the moment, though, Orochimaru sees no rebirth, no spirit, no judgement or heaven or baby. He sees meat. Expired, rotting meat.

His parents hadn’t got to decompose. They had burned together with their home, only the remains of ash and bone gathered to be buried symbolically. But if they had died natural deaths— if they had been allowed to decompose and return to the earth— it would have looked like this.  

So, the months pass; the summer when he and Jiraiya stumble across it, the season of life. Freshly dead, host to only the first and earliest insects— the simple blowflies, just like the ones that had swarmed the rest of the junkyard that day. As fitting for the summer of life those flies would couple and make a nest of their new home, laying their eggs and waiting for that new birth. The sweltering heat helped it along, the terrible stink it made attracting more and more flies.

The eggs hatched larva, and the larva grew up to be fat and wriggling maggots, who were invisible until eventually they found their way out. The maggots ate to expose the flesh, which attracted more, different kinds of flies.

In the transition from summer to autumn, those flies would fatten too, and once they were fat enough, small beetles and moths came to join the feast. The beetles fattened on those flies, and bigger beetles followed, predator beetles, who would eat the smaller bottom feeders. A mini ecosystem formed around that corpse. Life blossomed within death.

Now in the winter, the dead season, the maggots were gone, and so were most of the flies; the bigger ones still lurked in the undergrowth around, beetles and red ants in lines— but for the most part, the carcass had lost its popularity with the world around it, partially frozen by the cold. As a particularly large beetle approaches him, lifting its creepy head and waggling its pincers, Orochimaru thinks his visits might soon be coming to an end.

When he gets to his feet and turns to leave, he sees Ryota standing behind him. His face is white, his mouth open in silent, blood-curdling horror. The beetle taps its terrible, tickling, crawling legs against the back of Orochimaru’s foot.

Orochimaru screams.

Ryota screams.

* * *

Ryota runs first, wailing in fear, but Orochimaru is faster than him and catches up shortly. They both arrive at their front door panting and freezing, shoving to try and get inside first; the adults are waiting for them, arranged opposite each other at the table like posed dolls; in the centre of the table is a bedsheet and a stripped futon. At their arrival, both adults’ heads snap to the door like hawks. Ryota shoves past Orochimaru and runs to his mother, burying his tearful face in her kimono; she strokes his head but appears uninterested, more preoccupied.

“Perhaps, before you tell us where the hell you’ve been,” Mr Tsukikage begins coldly, “You could explain this to us, Orochimaru.” He holds up the sheet. “We found four more like it hidden in your room.”

Panting, Orochimaru blinks in bewildered surprise, face unmoving. “It’s my sheet.”

Mr Tsukikage gives him a very stern, disappointed look; Ryota distractingly tugs at his mother, trying to tell her what he’s seen, but she shushes him, her face a mask of barely suppressed fury. “ _Is_ it your sheet, Orochimaru?”

Orochimaru walks into the room proper so he can close the door behind him, shutting the wintery draft out. “I don’t understand, sir.”

“These sheets,” Mr Tsukikage says, aggravatingly slow, as if he’s trying to belabor the point as long as possible, “are embroidered with the Senju clan symbol. And they’re much finer than anything you could afford—”

Mrs Tsukikage saves them all the slow build, apparently unable to contain herself any further. “He stole them _,_ ” she spits, angrily chewing her lip. “He _s_ tole them and he lied to us and had us shelter him, a thieving, disgusting animal—”

“Dear,” her husband chides. His clipped tone betrays his irritation at being interrupted by his ally. Orochimaru wonders how long he’d been rehearsing his interrogation; Mr. Tsukikage had always liked the idea of being on an authoritative force.

Ryota can’t take the dallying any longer, and pushes his mother away from her muffling comfort, to her shock.

“Forget the stupid sheets!” he sobs, his face thoroughly damp with snot and tears, red from the cold. “He had a— he had—”

“ _Ryota,_ ” Mrs. Tsukikage says in mixed concern and horror, but Ryota manages to gather the nerve, in his small, misguided, terrified child’s way, to stand up to his parents and speak what he thought was the truth.

“ _He’s_ _killed someone! I saw the body!”_

* * *

 

Ryota’s sobbing can still be heard from upstairs, along with the gentle shushing of his mother; his fear shakes the house. Orochimaru sits in silence on the windowsill, holding the jar of rice, wrapped in his canvas bag; he’s wearing everything else he owns. Mr. Tsukikage watches him, as if concerned he’ll do something else if left alone, pacing the kitchen furiously. They’ve been waiting in silence; it seems Mr. Tsukikage doesn’t know what to say to him without anyone else in the room.

There’s a flurry of knocks at the door.

“That’ll be your sensei,” Mr. Tsukikage says at last, breaking the tense silence as he goes to open it. “Hopefully he’ll know what to do with you, because gods know I don’t. I tried, Orochimaru-kun, but I don’t know how to love you anymore.”

He opens the door. Sure enough, Hiruzen stands outside, panting like he’d run all the way.

“I came as soon as I could,” he says, trying to regain composure. “What’s happened?”

 

* * *

“We gave you a chance, Orochimaru, when no one else would. Everyone we know told us we were mad, that we were risking our lives by letting you under our roof, but we thought: what nonsense, that a child would kill his own parents.” Mrs. Tsukikage lets out a long, shaky breath. Her eyes are bloodshot, her hand laid over her breast as if to calm herself. Her husband nods supportingly as she continues. “But then I thought, maybe it was an accident. I gave you the benefit of the doubt—” Her voice breaks.

Mr. Tsukikage continues for her. “But all you gave us in return was disrespect, ingratitude, selfishness, embarrassing and upsetting us. And now you’ve scarred our only true son. Is it jealousy?”

“ _Violence_ ,” his wife whispers.

“Tsukikage-san, _please_ ,” Hiruzen interjects, hands raised calmingly. “You can’t possibly be accusing Orochimaru of something so awful—”

“Of course, we’re not saying that,” Mr. Tsukikage says meaningfully, looking at his wife with alarm. “But the thievery and—”

“He had a dead _body,_ ” Mrs. Tsukikage interrupts, voice trembling with rage. “How do you explain _that?_ ”

“I just found it,” Orochimaru says stiffly. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“I understand you’re upset, madam,” Hiruzen says diplomatically, “And quite rightly so, but I need you to understand Orochimaru has not killed anyone. He will of course be disciplined for the theft and lying about the body, but—”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Orochimaru mutters.

“ _What?!”_ Mrs. Tsukikage is beside herself now, standing up, pointing at him accusatorily. “We took you into our _home,_ fed you the rice off our table, paid for those clothes on your back— and _this_ is how you repay us?! Poor Ryota will never sleep again for what you made him see— we could turn you in to the authorities, the Uchiha could make an example out of you—”

“Again, Tsukikage-san, let’s not be hasty. As I said, Orochimaru hasn’t done anything so serious as you imagine—”

“I don’t care, I want him _out!_ He brought _death_ into this house!” Mrs. Tsukikage wails, eyes wild, hands clutching at herself madly. Orochimaru thinks, in that moment, she looks quite a lot like his mother.

“Please keep your voice down, Tsukikage-san. Surely we can come to some kind of resolution—” Hiruzen protests, his voice more stern now, but she’s having none of it, slamming her hand on the table, knocking over a glass of water.

“ _No!_ Just get him _out,_ get him _out of my house!”_

“Dear, please,” Mr. Tsukikage says, embarrassed by his wife’s outburst, “You’re getting hysterical.”

“ _Look_ at him, Koichi! _Look at his eyes—_ ”

Orochimaru doesn’t blink as he shrinks back, staring at the sad mockery of a family before him; marionette man and woman, holding one another protectively, as if they were about to be slaughtered. He wonders if his parents looked so undignified before they were killed.

“I think,” Mr. Tsukikage begins shakily, “It might be best if you took that _thing_ and left, Sarutobi-san.”

“Well, we’re agreed on that much,” Hiruzen says curtly, one defensive arm on Orochimaru’s shoulder. “Letting your prejudice and paranoia run an innocent child out of a home, you people should be ashamed to call yourselves citizens of Konoha. Come, Orochimaru.”

The Tsukikages are silent and wide-eyed as Hiruzen turns to lead Orochimaru from the house; it’s only once they’ve reached the door that Mrs. Tsukikage finds her voice once more, screaming after them as they abscond; her voice hoarse and racked with sobs, wailing the same word over and over again like a desperate, dying mantra.

“ _Evil! Evil! Evil!”_

“Don’t listen, Orochimaru,” Sarutobi says urgently; Orochimaru’s way ahead of him, hands covering his ears as they hurry away. There’s a sound of glass shattering against a wall, a vase or a bottle thrown in their wake, and Sarutobi yelps; he shouts an expletive back at them, and quickens his pace, ushering his charge away into the night.

The screaming doesn’t stop until they’re out of earshot.


	5. Epilogue

“...Here we are. Building four, flat four. Easy to remember, right?”

Unlocking the door with a  _ click,  _ Hiruzen shows Orochimaru into a small, boxy apartment. He’s been unusually jolly since the incident with the adopted family, cracking jokes and ruffling his hair, which Orochimaru understands is meant to be an act of kindness. He appreciates it, though not enough to try and play along. He thinks Hiruzen knows that. 

“It’s not much, I know, but… at least it’s yours. Plus, you’re inside the village walls now, and not too far from the Academy, either…” 

Orochimaru lets Hiruzen ramble about the many silver linings to this dump while he explores, tracing his fingers along countertops and running his feet along the tatami, enjoying the shuffling noise it made. 

“...A little small, but then, so are you, yes? And, look— I had a present for you delivered this morning.” 

Orochimaru glances back with a dull kind of interest. The object Hiruzen produces from one of the few cardboard boxes cluttering the hall doesn’t register to him. 

“What is that?” 

“An electric kettle! With this, you won’t have to worry about heating water on the stove— all it takes is a push of a button, not to mention you won’t have to use any fire—” 

He cuts himself off, making it even more uncomfortable than if he had finished his sentence. The unspoken words being,  _ and this time your house won’t burn down.  _

Orochimaru nods in acknowledgement, which Hiruzen could interpret as gratitude if he really, really tried. He doesn’t appear to be; instead he busies himself with setting up the kettle, unpacking some of the essentials he’d brought - a pot and a pan, glasses, a tea set, a new futon. Anything to avoid eye contact, apparently. 

“Sensei,” Orochimaru says quietly, watching him. Hiruzen doesn’t reply, whistling as he puts the contents of a convenience-store bag in the fridge. 

“Sarutobi-sensei,” he says again, louder. 

“Yes, Orochimaru?” There’s a wince in the man’s voice, like he knows what’s coming. 

“I can do that.” Orochimaru takes the bag from him, shutting the fridge door. “I’d like it if you left.”

Hiruzen opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again; if he’s at all offended by the blunt request, he does a good job of hiding it. 

“I… of course. I can— I’ve a list of addresses, and a recent map of the village. I’ll just put them on the fridge— so you know where to go if anything’s wrong. You’ll receive a monthly allowance, but if anything goes wrong, there’s a food bank close by, which I’ll just mark on the—” 

“Sensei.” Orochimaru glances at him coldly, expression unreadable. Eyes dull, gold, unnerving. “You’re not my parent. Please go.” 

Hiruzen wants to comfort him then, somehow— place a hand on his shoulder, tell him it would be all right, for fuck’s sake, the kid’s only nine— but he knows he can’t. His throat tightens. “I’m sorry,” he chokes, and backs out of the apartment. Orochimaru doesn’t move, watching him, waiting for him to leave. A child, alone, in an adult house. He forces a smile, and keeps it plastered on until the door clicks shut. 

* * *

Hiruzen turns and leans against the door as soon as it’s closed, composure breaking, smile forgotten. His own voice reciting that feeble apology echoes in his ears, cementing in a mix of shame; those eyes, those golden eyes bore into his still, dancing inside of his eyelids. Slowly, Hiruzen slides down against the door until he’s sat hunched on the welcome mat, and buries his face in his hands. He’s twenty-three and he doesn’t know how to help a child in a situation like this. No one else would do it if he wouldn’t, of course, but the fact that he was  _ willing  _ to do it didn’t mean he was any good at it. He rubs at the circular, bite-shaped scar on his forearm. 

Negotiating the payments the Tsukikages would receive monthly for taking care of Orochimaru was hard; trying to scrape together the money from what little social funding Tobirama allowed him was even harder. Finding the flat hadn’t been so difficult; what with all the new apartment blocks springing up like weeds around Konoha, no one wanted to live in a dump like this any more. And as it turned out, feeding and housing one kid wasn’t that expensive. Childrearing was more than food and shelter, but gods, there was only so much Hiruzen could take at a time. Danzo breathing down his neck every time he got an important mission, Tobirama doing too much, Hashirama doing too little. His father dying. Sasuke Sarutobi wasn’t old, but by heaven, he smoked. You couldn’t pry that pipe out of his hands even after they were cold and stiff. His son’ll carry the Sarutobi name and still not a thing Hiruzen does is ever right. Can’t even do right by one little parentless kid. 

And they say it takes a village to raise a child.

He needs to see Biwako. 

 

* * *

Orochimaru makes tea.

The electric kettle whistles just like the iron one did, but to give Hiruzen credit, it was just as convenient as he’d made it out to be, and as obtuse as he’d been about it, the lack of fire was something of a relief. Orochimaru makes a ritual of it, unpacking his new tea set from its protective brown paper wrapping and setting it up, pouring hot water into the one lonely teacup, into the pot, the diffuser, over the tea leaves. He takes his time, going over every step like his mother taught him, and sits at the table with it when he’s done, sipping leisurely. 

Outside, the wind whistles, rattling the window-pane and rustling the tree-leaves; the rain is beginning to peter out, a warm yellow tone taking to the clouds as hints of light start to peep through their seams. Konoha was cold and wet this year, a pathetic fallacy of Orochimaru’s own tumultuous mourning period; typhoon season had torn garden fences from their roots, and the dark blue skies in autumn had turned an ill shade of olive-grey come winter. Like living inside a bruise on his knee. Orochimaru kneels by the window with his tea warming his hands, and watches as the bruise heals, from sick-green to yellow to white. Somewhere— not here, not in Konoha, but somewhere— the clouds crack open to let down a glimmer of warm golden sunlight, and from the trees flits a solitary sparrow, heralding spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that concludes this 'first' instalment of a serpent in the rice! i'm glad to finally have it finished, i've had this final bit written for a long time, it's just the bits in between that are hard. it got a little more detailed with the 'ocs' than i planned, unfortunately i think of my plots more visually, and things that are intended to be quick and transient subplots somehow become enormous cumbersome chapters that seem to go on much longer than i hoped for. i hope they were still enjoyable or at least well executed! it's now 5am and i've been writing a good while, so there may be mistakes that i will catch eventually and fix. until then though, i hope you enjoy the first proper instalment of this monster series. i've been working on it a long time and there is a lot written but not a lot cohesive enough to publish yet, so bear with me, but i hope this one sets the tone for how the rest will be - hopefully longer, and more emotionally/story-involved. i want each instalment of asitr to feel like an episode, each standing on their own but all tied together.   
> i hope you enjoyed, there is much more to come. please consider commenting if you liked reading this, and bookmark the series for updates on the next instalments, of which there will be many. thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> please leave kudos/comments and be sure to bookmark the series if you'd like to see more!


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